Sins of the Living
by sexylyon
Summary: SeiferxSquall When all you can see is the blood on your hands, how will you ever get clean? WARNING: languageviolenceyaoi
1. a walk in the garden

Panting, Squall dodged as the T'Rexaur tried to tear his head off.

So close this time he could smell the fetid exhalation, the rank warmth like a smothering, choking hand. It roared with rage when it didn't connect, the massive sound a concussive force all its own.

He spun with it, into it, slicing in backhanded motion at the swiftly descending head. The baleful eye disappeared and the creature screamed again and yet again, rising upwards in an agonized tsunami.

Squall watched dispassionately; as the tender junction of infantile arm and belly was exposed he lunged for the only kill that was possible to reach. A deceptive pirouette, both hands to the hilt and the final twist that would bring him out and away from under the crushing bulk. Heat scalded his hands, heart blood in a wave.

The body swayed, staggered; the massive head shook from side to side as gobbets of froth spattered. Over. It was over. It didn't even have a chance to realize it was dead.

It was only a heartbeat, two. Maybe three. Then with a shudder the 'Rex dissolved back into holographic mist, taking the blood with it.

It took too long to recover; he felt it in the lock of his jaw, the grip of his hands. It took hard, conscious effort to straighten out of the crouch, to convince muscles trembling on the edge of the next action, the next reaction to relax far enough to obey. However smooth it was, it was too slow.

Breathe. The first mantra of everything, the only thing. Breath, oxygen, power to move, power to think. Over the hammer of his heart he could finally hear the water again, the stream he'd crossed earlier with its position fixed as both hazard and way of escape. The convenient breeze chose this moment to drift across his face to dry the damp sweat there. Everything here was diffused with easy light; no hard shadows trick the eye, no wind to skirl dust in his face. Perfect fighting conditions.

Victory smelled like green leaves and sweet loam even though the trees here had never seen sunshine. The small clearing made larger in the last frenetic moments smelled of crushed vegetation and rot and his exertion, yet he imagined that underneath everything else he could smell the machinery. Imagination, of course.

Squall brought the gunblade up and saluted the empty air. _The best that money could conceive, plan and build. _They should have given it a skylight. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the crested spikes that had formed.

"Score. Three hour restriction. Visual."

The numbers hovered in the air, noting everything about him that had once mattered. Only seven so far but all of them rated peerless, all parameters exceeding requirements. A few more perhaps and maybe he could shake the feeling that had driven him here and denied him sleep.

It wasn't Rinoa really, although if he was going to be honest with himself the conversation he'd had with her today was at least part of his insomnia. Self-directed bitterness touched his lips even as he waved away the glowing report. Not everything had quantifiable measurements.

It was almost a month to the day since she'd left Garden to visit with her father. They'd talked a few times since in carefully opaque conversations but today... today they'd both finally admitted that she just wasn't coming back.

And yes, there was grief there, and guilt, with his fingers tightening on the hilt of the weapon. Technology could give him everything it seemed. A place to be, an enemy to fight, a exclusionary focus of self-interest. It could faithfully transcribe the look in her eyes across the thousands of miles of separation. And yes, there'd still been love there, he was sure of it. Beneath everything else, there'd still been love.

And she deserved more. So much more than the disappointment and the words that he started and could never seem to finish. He just wasn't _enough_. Could never _be_ enough.

So let it go. He closed long eyes, tilting his head back into the perfectly controlled air. Let it go. Let it be just another ache, just another misery in a life stretched too far. What was the difference anyway? Pain was, after all, just pain.

The worst part was, for a while, even he'd believed. That she was the one, that love that would make everything right again and save him, save them all maybe. Happily ever after, just like the stories. His reward for all the terrible things he'd seen, for all the terrible things he'd done.

_Never that easy._ It wasn't her fault and it probably wasn't even his. It didn't make the pain any less or soften the anger of another hope that died, strangled by his failings.

The bushes rustled menacingly on the right and his grip on Lionheart tightened. His lean body began to thrill again with a hard-wired anticipation, rewarded as a blue hexadragon slithered into view. The heavy body was deceptively slow, low to the ground. The blunt head snaked forward, its tongue testing the air.

It was late, the training center technically deserted, so he'd told the controlling computer to up the ante and bring the skill level of the monsters closer to his own need for slaughter. He was so far beyond the student exercises that he might have laughed if it wasn't something closer to tears. So much death, in so short a time, dealt with such brutal necessity from his hand. It was a friend to him now, perhaps a truer friend than most. A voice he'd learned to understand intimately during those long weeks and now whispered almost incessantly in his mind.

Looking at the creature that was programmed to scent living blood, created specifically to need only him, he didn't know what he felt but it trembled deep in the muscles of his belly. It would never question, never care about ethics or morality. It couldn't. It knew only that he lived and that was enough. A reason to continue, a reason to kill. Sometimes.. sometimes that was all he needed too.

He saluted the creature with an upraised gunblade. He flowed into the attack, letting memory and instinct be both guide and barrier. The fighting was all that was left now; the blood and the rage and the pain merging into a sensation stronger than any drug. He carried no potions here, junctioned no cures, no healing magic, no saving graces. He wanted this feeling to be without boundaries, wanted it without any restrictions on his skill or desire. He would win or he would die; there would be no more middle grounds, no more fallback positions.

In the back of his mind, Shiva stirred at the bloodlust and spread her beautiful fingers. Her laughter thrilled like ice wine but he refused, letting the cold wind crest only in his mind. Ice teased with a trickle of power through his flesh, the power to move faster, be faster, be everything he needed, an offer of everything he still wanted.

No. He knew every one of her tricks, the sweet taste of her deceits. Tonight he needed heat, and fury. Frost sparked in his hair and gentle malice slicked the back of his throat but his refusal was absolute. She subsided then, a quiescent goddess only half aroused from slumber.

The dragon was hard to kill but he had gone so far beyond what was human that the outcome was inevitable. He collected a few more bruises and a thin line of blood that trickled down his side, but eventually it too lay in a simulcra of death. It took with it another measure of his confusion and for that at least he was grateful.

Another illusion dissolved, leaving him alone. He rolled his shoulders to ease the strain of hours of wielding Lionheart. Its shimmering length beguiled and damned him, the outward display of a perfection he would never achieve. He raised the blade, admiring its beauty even as it reflected his expression back.

Blue flames flickered along its length, so far modified from its original utilitarian blade that it seemed like something out of legend; not the weapon that had kept him alive through a War that he hadn't wanted to fight. Perhaps it would indeed be legend one day; he'd already tripped across love poems on the student bulletin boards dedicated to it. Although, from the gist of them, it was hard to tell which of his weapons the students were praising.

The memory brought a faint but real grin to his face, if only briefly, and he let the gunblade dangle again. Lionheart was just the outward reflection of what he'd done to himself, even if he was the only one that seemed to realize it with all its final implications. Rinoa had perhaps guessed some of it, for she had been closest to him at the end and had stayed for as long as she could bear in the aftermath.

The grin wiped off his face as if it had never been. The truth was he'd wanted to be there for her, be everything the story said he was supposed to be. But it was also true what they said about good intentions. He'd sacrificed so much of himself at the last... couldn't tell if there was anything left. Because as much as she'd wanted to save the world, save everything, there were only jagged shards of his life left. Shards that gentle, caring Rinoa couldn't handle without cutting herself to the bone.

Yet she'd still tried, another veteran of the War, same as he was. She'd picked up piece after piece, trying to fix what she could see, tried to put it back together in a shape that made sense. Finally he'd told her to leave, to take some time away to visit her family. She'd protested but he'd insisted, knowing that she couldn't stay.

Eventually she'd gone and silence had descended. One week had drifted into two, into three and then five and then this afternoon's call had sealed it. He'd wished her well, wished her safe and happy. Technology gave him the love in her eyes but he couldn't say even now what she'd seen in his.

Because it wasn't fair, was it? To have suffered so much and still be denied the promised reward. Although - truth. She wasn't anyone's reward to give, certainly not a prize to be won and then displayed like a trophy. But while the rational part of his mind knew it, something terrible wailed just out of hearing. If Rinoa had tried and failed to mend what had broken... then there was no hope of redemption anymore. No hope at all.

He lifted Lionheart.

Some pain could be laid to rest, if only for a night, and he was nearly tired enough to sleep. More blood was needed; imaginary blood to wash away his real sins.

He moved into the trees, the undergrowth rustling faintly, and was gone.


	2. breakfast of champions

When he woke the next morning, it was all he could do not to throw the alarm clock across the room. He fumbled with an arm that refused to move, until he finally managed to hit the right button and shut the damn noise off. 

Squall flopped back onto his narrow bed, throwing one arm over his eyes to block the sunlight that washed through the half open curtains. Under the cover of his arm, he blinked dazedly and tried to shake off the nightmare. He was sweating still, his body chill under covers that were so twisted he must have been thrashing in his sleep again. He tried to remember but it had all slipped away again, lost in the fragile morning light. Cursing quietly, he pressed his hands against his eyes and tried to force himself awake. 

He had to get up, there were things he needed to do and be, even if he couldn't quite recall what they were at this moment. There was always something, from the moment he woke up until the moment he forced himself to sleep. He'd never realized how much power and control the Headmaster of Balamb Garden wielded until the reins of it had been thrust into his hands, cleverly disguised as a gift. Not that he really blamed Cid for landing him with the job and the responsibility, or at least, didn't blame him enough to do anything about it. Cid deserved the break, deserved to spend the time with the woman he loved and that had against all odds had been returned to him. 

His traitor mind flashed to Rinoa and he brutally throttled back the biting despair. Damn it, he'd knew they weren't right for each other. It had been so apparent after the terror had worn off and they'd become themselves again that they came from completely opposite understandings. They had both known it, but she had been the one to walk away when the silence had grown unbearable. That had to say something, that he'd been willing to live the lie. 

Cursing, he looked at the clock, struggling to keep from falling into that dark, familiar well. Seven in the morning. Better than the night before, but still only four and a half hours sleep. He could feel the fatigue weighing him down, but refused to let it rule his body even as it clawed at his mind. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, letting the blankets fall away from his body. 

He swayed on his feet momentarily and licked his lips, still tasting the blood that had flowed through his nightmare. The details were all but lost but the copper sweet taste of metal on his tongue was not to be denied. He groped after the dream, but it had faded away before he could touch it, leaving him only an impression of darkness and light, and the lingering taste. In an unconscious ritual, he closed his eyes and stretched, pulling himself back into focus and locking away all that he could not face and refused to understand. 

In the morning light, his hair lit with a corona of gold, streaking its normal chestnut with waves of bronze and cinnamon. It touched hesitant fingers over his taut muscles, caressing the lean planes of his body as he stretched. Shyly it gilded the faint hairs on his arms and belly, glazing them with fire against the pale flesh that seemed more suited to moonlight. As his arms fell to his side he opened his eyes on reality. 

It was then that the warmth of the sun was revealed as the illusion it was, for they were ice. Storm grey, mercury clouds, they were rimmed in softest black that only served to frame the stark gaze of a predator. Most saw the body and the face, carved as if by a sculptor's wet dream, but few dared the eyes and fewer still the mind behind them. Squall neither cared for, nor worried about the desires of others and so it touched him not at all, both guard and prisoner in his shield of ice. 

A moment longer he stood in silence, a statue of himself in the morning light. Then he turned to stalk with animal grace to the bathroom, to the cold shower that would bring him fully into the world. 

_______________________________________________ 

"Hellfire, Squall, you look like you've been playing tag with Ifrit again." 

That came from somewhere over his right shoulder. He knew that chipper voice and ignored it with the ease of long practice. When Zell's face came into view he wasn't surprised that the blonde hadn't taken the hint of his continuing silence. The cheerful grin on the man's face an affront to anyone who'd barely managed a few hours of sleep. Squall continued to eat his breakfast with methodical motions. It was sometimes the only thing he managed to get into his body until late in the evening, so while he didn't really care for swiftly cooling eggs and definitely cold toast, at least it kept him on his feet. 

"Not sleeping well?" Zell asked. Squall didn't bother to answer. The tattooed blonde still didn't take the hint and sat down at the small table with his tray, clattering the cutlery. The noise made Squall wince slightly in reaction. 

"Don't worry about it," Zell assured him, "the Summer Festival will be over real soon and Selphie will calm down again. At least," the man said distractedly as he stared at his bagel, "as calm as she ever gets. Swear to god, if I have to hang from my heels putting up garlands in any more obscure places, or check any more lists of party guests, I will personally kick her ass six ways from Sunday. It just ain't natural I'm telling ya," he said as he decided against the bread product and started in on the hash browns, "that a man be involved in any kind of party planning. What about you Squall?" Brilliant blue eyes turned to him quizzically and he hunched a little further over his tray. "What's she roped you into doing?" 

Squall finished eating his eggs before finally replying. Zell was like a puppy, irrepressible until you stepped on him. Then he was all hurt eyes and feelings until you somehow made it up to him. It was easier by far to give him his chew toy and send him on his way to bother somebody else. 

"Supplies," he said briefly. 

"Man, that's gotta be sweet," Zell said with a hint of envy in his voice. "What'd you have to do to get that cushy job?" 

"Asked if she'd rather have me on the Hospitality Committee," Squall replied blandly. Zell choked so hard on the hash browns, they nearly came out his nose. Squall lifted an eyebrow but let the faint grin pass across his face. "We both agreed that Supplies was more my area," he continued in his soft voice. 

"No wonder they made you Commander," Zell said after he'd gulped down some orange juice. "Brains as well as beauty." 

There was a soft chime and a voice came over the intercom, interrupting their meal. 

"Commander Leonhart, report to the Infirmary at your convenience. Commander Leonhart, report to the Infirmary." 

Squall looked down at the remains of his breakfast but realized he just didn't have the appetite to finish it. He did force himself to take another slice of toast, pushing his chair back as he stood up to leave. It never occurred to him to say anything to Zell, simply turning away from the table. 

"Later Squall!" the blonde called after him. The Commander raised a hand in acknowledgement but said nothing as he began to leave. Before he was even halfway across the room, he'd already left Zell behind. 

______________________________________________ 

Zell's eyes trailed the lean figure thoughtfully but he kept any observations to himself. He continued eating quietly, or at least what passed for quietly for him. In this case it occasioned the relocation of only two squeamish girls who'd made the mistake of sitting too close. In their defense, they'd probably sat down when the only occupant of the table had been the Commander. Those were the breaks. 

He wasn't alone for long as an unmistakable silhouette hove into view, obviously looking for a table. 

"Ho!" he yelled, waving the bagel and scattering crumbs indiscriminately. "Over here cowboy!" 

Irvine grinned from across the room, pushing his way through the cafeteria to fall with a soft sprawl into the seat across from his friend. 

"Mornin'," he drawled happily, eyes still sleepy under his hat but alert enough for all that. "Did I see our fair Commander headin' outta here on automatic pilot? I tried to say hi but he sorta just breezed on by." Irvine waved a hand in the air, with a motion like a leaf landing. Zell looked at his friend steadily for a moment. 

"Yeah, that was our fearless leader all right," he replied. He played with his food for a minute or two, breaking his bagel into small pieces and dunking them into his orange juice. Irvine was used to the morning routine, but still didn't look too closely at it - some things were just better left unexplained. Irvine distracted himself with his own morning rituals, missing the first part of the conversation when Zell began to speak again. 

"Been meaning to ask you," Zell started quietly, "hell, I've been meaning to ask everybody. You notice anything... well, _different_ about Squall lately? I mean," he waved a hand dismissively in the air and showering a few tables with more breadcrumbs, "I figured since Rinoa left that he'd be in a major funk and I was all set to rope you and Selphie into dragging him outta his shell again. But this... this wall" he emphasized, "is different from his usual one and damned if I know how I know that." 

Zell frowned for a moment, a line creasing between his eyebrows as he tried to express his vague uneasiness. 

"I can't tell if its Squall being Squall or if there's anything really wrong." Zell propped his head on one hand and doodling things with his spilled orange juice."It just seems a little cold, even for our original strong and silent type. I wasn't expecting hysterics or anything but I was sure I'd see _some_ kind of reaction. I'm not getting any vibes at all, good, bad or otherwise. Damned if he hasn't totally shut down again." 

Irvine didn't reply right away, ducking under his hat to eat his own breakfast and incidentally protect himself from the worst of Zell's breakfast happiness. He though about his friend's observations, compared it to his own recent dealings with the Commander. Finally he shrugged expressively. 

"I can't really say Zell, Squall's always been pretty closed up. I swear the man shits diamonds every night, he's so goddamn tight." That got a laugh from Zell and Irvine ducked his head in reflex with his own grin. "Gotta say I haven't seen much of him lately, what with Selphie runnin' me ragged all over Garden when I'm not in classes and Squall's never encouraged me t'have casual conversations with him in the halls. D'you think there's somethin' wrong?" 

"I'm not sure," Zell replied, staring moodily at his orange juice decorations, "his reactions just seem a little off to me. Almost too quiet, like he's hiding something or repressing something or ... hell, I dunno. Maybe a diamond just got stuck sideways and he's too proud to admit it." 

Now it was Irvine's turn to laugh and the two friends dropped the subject of their Commander, mutually agreeing to shelve it for the moment. There were bigger fish to fry, the first one being how to turn the tables on Selphie for the agony she was putting them through. Two heads, one blonde and one amber, came together and the serious conversation began. 

_______________________________________________ 

Squall walked down the hallways and made the turn to the Infirmary on the autopilot that Irvine had accused him of back in the cafeteria. He wouldn't have denied it if he'd been asked, he just didn't think about it. He'd been shorting himself on sleep for months now and it was just getting worse as time went on. The nightmares were almost worse than not sleeping at all, and he'd taken to the training center in the forlorn hope that sheer exhaustion would keep the dreams at bay. It might have been better perhaps if he could remember anything, but although he'd wake up time after time in a sheer sweat and scared out of his wits, nothing would remain but a few scattered impressions and the taste of copper in his mouth. 

Fighting himself into exhaustion helped but he still wasn't getting enough sleep and he knew it. Finally, reluctantly, he'd turned to the doctor for some kind of help. It was easy to explain away his reasons without telling her how bad it was or the simmering rage beneath it that never went away any more. Post traumatic stress they called it, something that Garden saw a lot of and was fully equipped to handle. Before it had been a couple of chapters in a textbook; now he struggled to keep himself functioning through it. 

The first few of the doctor's concoctions had done their job and knocked him on his ass whether he wanted it or not. The side effect was that he couldn't function through the next day without feeling like he'd been wrapped in several yards of insulating cotton. Given the choice between the nightmares and fuzzy edges, he'd take the nightmares every time. The good doctor had assured him that it was just a matter of matching up dosage to metabolism. Maybe this early morning summons was a new magic potion she wanted to try. 

As he walked into the Infirmary the clean white walls screamed in his eyes. He really didn't like this place at all, the professionally warm manner of Dr. Kadowaki notwithstanding. All the memories he had of this place were of him waking up in either pain or agony depending on the severity of his injuries or hanging around waiting for a friend to go through the same ordeal. He suppressed a shudder. 

"Commander." 

That was the ineffable Doctor, unphased by everything that war and ambitious students could throw at her. She stepped around her console and waved her fingers haphazardly in the air in what might have been a salute. He took a few more steps closer, stopping near her desk as she walked over to a long cabinet against the far wall. She bent over and all but disappeared from view but Squall could hear the rummaging sounds. It only took a moment and she reappeared, holding a small bottle in her hand. 

"This should be it, Commander," she said with professional brusqueness. "I've checked it against your physical profile and I'm pretty sure I've got the bugs worked out. Now remember," she admonished as she handed it over to Squall, "the same instructions apply as the last few dosages. One in the evening, a half an hour before you intend to be asleep and schedule yourself a full eight hours of downtime since you won't be waking up any sooner than that. Check in with me in a few days if you're still having problems and I'll take another look at it." 

Squall hefted the small bottle, his eyes reflecting absolutely nothing as he looked at it. He pocketed it methodically before raising his gaze back to the Doctor. 

"Thanks," he said, bringing a brief smile to his face. It must have been good enough, for the Doctor patted him maternally on the shoulder as she went back around her desk. 

"No problem Commander, I'm glad I'm able to help. It's always a good idea to get on top of these things right away, before they become bigger problems. Don't forget; let me know if there're any adverse effects. You know the kind I've warned you about." 

Squall nodded and walked away, back out of the Infirmary and away from the white walls that seemed to stare at him in accusation. 


	3. ice fishing

He walked down the hallways of the Garden, the secret bottle of pills digging into his hip and rattling almost inaudibly with every step. Each brusque stride brought that small sound to his ears, damning to his pride. It angered him that it was necessary, that even this he couldn't handle without help. Insomnia was for those with guilty consciences or mortal griefs. 

He had neither, damn it. He'd done what he'd needed to do to survive and to win, and his friends had made it through the fire with him, battered but alive. Damned if it was fair, and Squall's breath caught in his throat as a wave of acid, impotent anger washed through him, bringing the taste of wood and copper to his mouth. His hands unconsciously flexed at his side, opening and closing as fists formed. 

The students in the hallways passed him by with murmured words of respectful greeting, but his burning gaze kept them all carefully away from him. Halfway to the elevator he knew he was walking much too quickly, too forcefully as his own building rage drove him forward. With iron control he forced himself to slow and to straighten his face from the scowl it wore, if not into something cheery, then at least into something suitably blank. He even managed to nod at the few people he recognized before he was able to step into the elevator and the mirrored steel closed him away from all the curious eyes. 

Leaning forward, he punched in the command code that would override the student lock on the allowable destinations and take him instead to the administration area. Reflexively, he examined himself in the metal sheen of the doors as the elevator began to lift smoothly to his office. Everything was monochrome, from the black leather pants and silver studded belts around his slim hips to the sleeveless white shirt that creased comfortably over his shoulders. He really didn't give a damn what that said about him. 

Griever winked at him, hanging coldly from the heavy silver chain around his throat. More silver glinted in accent, from the buckles on his boots to the studs in from one ear, caught randomly by the light as it flashed through the glass sides of the elevator. Swift and smooth he rose to the higher floors, where he made casual decisions every day that governed the lives of all that lived in Garden, and affected how the world worked outside it. 

Squall studied himself without interest as the metal wavered with the infinitesimal shuddering of the machinery. His reflection seemed insubstantial, almost like he was a mirage of himself. Today, that seemed about right. 

The secretary on duty looked up and gave him a small smile as he stepped out of the elevator into the foyer where her desk was strategically placed. She intelligent hazel eyes matched to soft blonde hair that had been cut in a short bob. He vaguely recognized her and acknowledged her with a small wave of his fingers in quasi-greeting. 

"Good morning, sir," she ventured quietly, the hesitant but genuine smile still lingering on her lips. 

"Good morning," he replied neutrally. "Anything new on the agenda today?" He wasn't surprised that the girl was only vaguely familiar, since his secretarial staff switched around with amazing regularity. He trusted that they all knew what they were up to and since their appointments were the responsibility of Quistis, he knew they were all trained and efficient. At the beginning of his tenure as acting Headmaster and SeeD Commander, it had been a different matter but when he'd reduced two secretaries to tears in quick succession, Instructor Trepe had stepped in and solved his problem out of sheer exasperation. 

Now, things got done without him having to do anything other than read the appropriate paperwork and attend the scheduled meetings and for that he was grateful to his former teacher and friend. Squall knew very well that Quistis replaced his secretaries as soon as they started showing signs of infatuation, and for that alone she was worth her weight in gold. 

"Nothing outstanding sir, the files you need are on your desk and a reminder that you have a scheduled call with President Loire at eleven o'clock." 

"Thanks," he said briefly and was rewarded again with that small smile. He continued the journey into his office, closing the doors behind him with relief. His shoulders slumped and he ran a hand that trembled faintly through his hair, letting the silky strands fall where they may. His eyes burned and the little bit of breakfast he'd managed to eat sat like a rock in his stomach. He closed long eyes and grimaced, forcibly reminding himself that getting sick was not an option. After a few moments, his gut subsided in uneasy truce and he walked slowly to the desk and sat down. 

Even after all the months he'd been here, he still thought of it as Cid's office. Everything was casually elegant, plush and inviting without being overblown. The military contracts that Garden entered into were negotiated here; power and information moved through these few rooms like an invisible wind. Everything reflected that, from the deep cherry lacquer of the desk and the restful artwork that adorned the walls, to the soft comfort of the brown leather chairs and couches that fairly screamed of good taste and culture. 

Squall looked around and knew himself to be the one jarring note, keen as a knife and twice as cold amidst all this understated luxury. Then his mouth twitched as he remembered the rest of the gang in this inner sanctum, this place of quiet power, most of them drunk out of their minds and laughing hysterically as Irvine attempted to demonstrate how one rode a wild Mesmerize from the back of one of the couches. It was a brief flash but it lightened Squall's mood for a moment. He settled down to the paperwork, keeping an eye on the time for Laguna's call. 

When the intercom bell sounded softly, he'd almost managed to banish the haze in his mind, although he could still feel the odd delayed echo in his body that made him feel half a step behind himself. Stretching for a moment, his back kinked from having been stationary for hours hunched over the desk. He reached out a slender finger and pushed the flashing light. The blonde secretary's voice whispered softly at him and then a second light on the console lit up. Sighing softly, he pushed that one as well and the ever-smiling face of his father appeared on the screen. 

"Squall," Laguna said warmly, "good to see you, son." 

Squall winced a little internally, but there was no point denying the relationship. They even looked alike, once you got past the extreme differences in personality. Just his luck that his long lost father turned out to be a cross between a hyperactive four year old and a plush toy. 

"Good ... afternoon, sir," he replied after a quick internal reckoning of Esthar time. "How're things on your side of the water?" 

Laguna's smile dimmed a little but didn't disappear as he waved his fingers in the air, as if flicking bits of dust away. 

"Same old, same old, nothing much changes anymore, thank the sweet gods. How're things with you?" 

"The same," Squall replied, reminding himself to let a ghost of a smile pass across his face. "Just slogging through the morning paperwork so I can clear the desk for the afternoon's influx." 

"Never ending, isn't it?" Laguna commiserated, his green eyes flashing in sympathy. "I wish I could tell you some comforting words of wisdom, but bureaucracy waits for no man as I'm sure you've discovered." The President of Esthar paused and regarded his son with keen eyes, hesitating as he studied his son's face. Squall didn't have to struggle anymore for an emotionless facade; the difficult part now was remembering to let something touch his face when it was necessary to forestall certain conversations. This was one of those times. He could just feel a concerned lecture building up behind Laguna's lips and he desperately didn't want to get into it while he felt so damn fuzzy. In an effort to distract the man, he said the first thing that came to mind. 

"Balamb's having its Summer Festival in a couple of weeks, and I can't remember if we've issued you your invitation yet. Has Selphie sent you anything by courier?" 

A purely Laguna smile flashed across the older man's face at the conversational gambit, wicked and amused at the same time. 

"Oh yes," the president breathed gently, "I got my invitation by courier all right. Kiros and Ward's came as well, but theirs weren't done up in a red ribbon with little golden hearts on the band, and glitter dust inside the envelope." The president cocked an expressive eyebrow at his son as Squall groaned into his hand. "I guess that means I'm extra specially invited, right?" 

"Gods above, Selphie is just not to be believed," Squall apologized in a rueful tone. "I'm sorry, but I just don't think she's ever gotten past that schoolgirl crush on you. And if I try and confront her about opportuning the leader of an allied country, she'll just start giving me those big wide eyes and saying something about how much you deserve getting invitations with gold hearts because you work so hard." Laguna held up a hand to forestall Squall's half-hearted explanation, a knowing grin still plastered on his face. 

"Selphie is a sweetheart and we both know it. I'll bring her a gift when I come and it'll make her day - Kiros and Ward can protect me from the fallout. It's what I pay them for," he grumped happily. 

"Your funeral," Squall agreed ruefully, "but if encouraging younger women to pander to your ego is really your thing, don't let me rain on the admiration parade." Squall's tone was dry and Laguna's face flushed. The president's mouth opened and closed a few times as he tried to figure out a snappy reply but Squall beat him to the punch. "Look, I'm sorry Laguna, I hate to cut this short, but we need to get down to business before the next emergency is pounding on my door. I've got some supply and manpower requests that I'm hoping Esthar can help me out with and I've also gotten some fairly strong complaints in regards to machine part deliveries routing through Dollet, and I'm not sure if it's your customs or mine that's causing the problem." 

Laguna closed his mouth finally and they got down to business, but it took a few minutes before the flush finally faded away from his cheeks. Squall kept the conversation firmly on track for the rest of their call and was finally able to sign off after twenty minutes, having not once touched on a subject that pertained to him personally. The relief was short lived however, as no sooner had he finished with the Esthar president than the secretary's notice light flashed again. His hand moved before he even thought about not replying, too used to the motions of it. 

"What now?" he growled, feeling the beginnings of a headache move through his temples. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, trying to forestall the incipent pain. The secretary's voice was smooth and unphased at his grumpy tone; Quistis chose them not only for efficiency but also for a calm and unflappable manner. That was another thing to thank her for. 

"Head Instructor Trepe to see you, sir." 

Ask and ye shall receive. Squall glared at the flashing light but couldn't think of a reason to refuse the visit without sounding rude, or worse, childish. 

"Send the Instructor in please," he replied after a moment, sighing softly under his breath. A moment later and the door of his office opened to reveal the slim form of Quistis as she slipped gracefully inside. Cool and beautiful, she suited the room far more than Squall himself did, confidence and strength in her face and stride as she moved across the room. She must have just finished one of her classes for she was still dressed in her SeeD uniform, impeccably pressed and worn. In contrast, Squall instantly felt a little grubby in his comfortable clothes and self-consciously stood until she seated herself on one of the smaller couches closest to his desk. Obviously this was more of a social visit; if it had been official, she would have come right up to the desk and stated the nature of her request. 

Squall shrugged his shoulders and moved around the desk to flop into the chair opposite hers. Gods that felt good, and he slouched a little further into the forgiving leather, letting his head loll to the side as neck muscles protested. He regarded Quistis through half closed eyes as she smiled at his obvious attempts to get comfortable. 

"Rough day Commander?" she inquired gently. The light sparked golden flashes from her hair, and Squall admired her remotely. Although they'd gone through hell and back together, and he technically outranked her now, at least a small part of himself was the boy in the back of the classroom with a crush on his pretty teacher. A little of that glinted in his eyes as Quistis gave him a quizzical look, her eyes warm on his. 

"Not really," he sighed, "mostly catching up on reports and making sure that Selphie's party supplies are on track and on their way." He watched Quistis through the glimmer of his lowered eyelashes, wondering what she was angling for with the unexpected visit. "I just got off the line with Laguna, and you know how talking to him always makes me cranky." Quistis smiled a little more, sympathy and mischief sparkling back at him. 

"You know that you two are more alike than either of you will admit, its just that your intensities go in opposite directions. You know Laguna worries about you, so you'll just have to forgive him if he comes across a little too strong." 

Squall let a small groan cross his lips. 

"A _little_ strong?" he said with a note of exasperated emphasis. "The man is a tidal wave of good intentions." He held up a hand to forestall Quistis' defense. "I know, I know, he's trying to make up for lost time, but I'm just not used to this whole father-son-family thing. He pushes too hard, looking for something that doesn't really exist. I can admire the man for the job he does and even understand the reasoning that led him there, but he keeps trying to get me to admit to feelings that I just don't have." 

Quistis regarded him thoughtfully, gently propping up her head as she leaned a little more into the arm of the couch. The nearly afternoon light flashed off her glasses and kept Squall from reading her eyes. When she replied, her tone was neutral and without judgment. 

"Give it time Squall, give it time. It's still new to him, to you both. I'm sure you'll both eventually find a middle ground where you're comfortable." Squall tipped his head in acknowledgement but ventured nothing further. Silence fell between them, comfortable for the moment. 

Quistis hesitated, searching what she could see of Squall's face for anything out of the ordinary. What he'd said about Laguna was nothing new, and his matter of fact tone about the awkward situation was not a hair out of place. Yet the longer she sat in his office, the more she felt that Zell was right, that something was indeed off kilter. He was rubbing the back of his neck as if it pained him, and he did seem a little worn down around the edges but nothing really obvious, nothing that she would have noticed if she hadn't been looking for it. 

Squall's expression was closed and unreadable, but then that was usual - only ghosts and fragments of emotion ever slipped through his iron control at the best of times. Even now, although his body was obviously relaxing into the soft leather, his pale eyes were staring at her with their guarded blankness. She sorted through a half a dozen approaches in her head, trying to choose the one least likely to set him off into defensive mode. Finally, she gave an internal shrug and picked one at random. Trying to second-guess Squall's likely reactions wasn't really one of her strong points. 

"I bumped into Zell in the hallway this morning," she started obliquely, "and he reminded me that its been awhile since we all got together. That got me to thinking and counting on my fingers and he's right, it's been weeks since we did anything as a group. In fact, I can't remember the last time you were able to make time to come out with us." Her tone was non-accusatory but it didn't matter. Squall's expression shifted not an iota from his look of casual interest but the temperature of the air dropped a few degrees. Quistis was made of sterner stuff however, and she faced Squall with the same degree of confident aggressiveness that she used in combat situations. "So tell me what you've been doing with yourself for the last few weeks. Don't try and tell me that you've been busy here. I keep tabs on your schedule you know." 

"Control freak," he teased gently, but the ice in his eyes didn't shift. Quistis didn't let him off the hook and sat quietly, smiling gently as she waited for him to reply. She couldn't see anything on the face, but she knew he was rapidly trying out explanations in his head. She leaned a little more into the couch and let him decide what to offer. What Squall didn't say would tell her more than what he did anyway. 

Finally, the Commander shrugged his shoulders, the tight fabric of his shirt tightening suggestively for a moment. Quistis ignored her own brief reaction with the ease of long understanding, for that particular awareness wasn't ever going to be an issue between them. When the silence stretched a little further, Quistis came to the realization that he wasn't going to reply at all. A steely glint entered her eyes and she switched to a more head on approach. Her next words were soft, but battle-hardened. 

"Heard from Rinoa lately?" 

That got a reaction. Squall's head came up and his eyes flashed anger at her, the temperature definitely taking a downturn. A thunderous frown crossed his face, a white line suddenly creasing between his eyebrows. Quistis settled back and brought a hand up to idly adjust her glasses. She kept her own expression smooth and stared in satisfaction as Squall tensed up, all pretense of casualness forgotten. 

"We spoke yesterday," he bit off, his voice rumbling with undertones of something hard and dangerous. 

"So what's going on with you two then?" she inquired with an ingenious expression of interest, like she hadn't noticed Squall's reaction. "It's been, what? A month now since she left? I think we're all kind of missing her." 

Squall stared at her with a lethal expression in his eyes for a heartbeat. Then those hard grey eyes flicked down, shuttered away behind smoky lashes. One breath, then two, and when he shifted his gaze to hers again, they were eerily blank, drained of all that emotion. Belatedly he relaxed back again into the leather, although he couldn't hide all tension that had thrummed through his body. 

"Yeah, I guess we all are," he replied, a hint of sudden humor threading through his silky voice. Quistis raised an eyebrow, and surprisingly, Squall elaborated. "It's alright, Quistis, I'm not going to deny that it hurts. Rinoa ... Rinoa needs to do what's best for Rinoa, and that means she needs to learn to live her own life. Its time for her to move on, to really start making decisions about where her life is going now that all the dust has settled." Squall stared at her, a rueful grin hovering just behind his lips. "It's just taken awhile for us both to see it and to accept it." 

"So she's not coming back?" Quistis probed gently. 

Squall rubbed a finger against his temple for a moment before replying. 

"This autumn she's going to be enrolling in the Timber University, to try and catch up on all the things she had to drop when the whole mess started. She's really upbeat about it, looking forward to the challenge. I think she'll do well." His voice remained bland, but Quistis had seen what she'd come to see. 

"Then I'm glad for her too," she replied quietly. "And what about you, Squall?" she pressed gently, cocking her head in implied understanding. "What's best for you?" 

Squall had recovered his aplomb with astonishing speed, although Quistis wasn't all that surprised. His eyes glinted at her, all his emotional reactions firmly under control again. He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. It was a distracting sight in leather pants, and not for the first time Quistis wondered if he did it deliberately to sidetrack her. 

"I'm not sure yet, but my plate is pretty full of Headmaster and Commander duties. When Cid comes back I've been thinking I might take a vacation or something, get away for a bit. I might even go visit Laguna in Esthar for a while. I know he'd love that idea." 

Quistis could only admire how smoothly he turned the conversation away, giving her little crumbs of information without revealing anything at all of importance. But she was SeeD, and she knew when she'd played her best card. She'd gotten what she'd come to get and now was the time for a tactical retreat to let the smoke clear and see what she'd rattled loose. 

"Well, remember that I'm here for you, that we're all here. Laguna's not the only one that's allowed to be concerned about you. Try not to forget that, hmmm?" With that, she got to her feet and stared down at her sprawled Commander, placing her hands on her hips as she regarded him thoughtfully. "I'll warn you right now that Zell and Irvine are planning some kind of inspired revenge thing on Selphie, and they'll probably be hitting you up for help. I told them to quit griping and take their lumps like men, but they're both arrested six year olds." Quistis shook her head in exasperation. "I'd warn Selphie, but to be honest, she's got it coming as long as the boys can pull it off. Try not to damage your reputation as SeeD Commander hmmm?" 

A glimmer of wicked interest showed in his eyes as Squall inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, Matron," he quipped back. 

She took that as her cue to exit and quietly left the office. Closing the door behind her, she blew a few stray hairs out of her face as she took a moment to lean on the carved wood panels to get her breath back. It was nerve wracking sometimes, facing down those flat eyes without any real idea where the battle-lines were drawn, which step would take her across the one that disguised the minefield. Frowning slightly, she ran her hands lightly over her arms, realizing how warm the outer office felt through her jacket. It was cold in Squall's office, something she hadn't really noticed while she'd been intent on her verbal skirmishing. 

The frown remained her face as she walked away, murmuring words of farewell to the long-suffering secretary on her way out. Definitely much warmer out here. 


	4. dreamscape

Quistis had left, closing the door behind her fifteen minutes ago, but Squall hadn't moved from the chair he slouched in. To the casual observer, he looked the picture of sleepy tranquility, his long legs outstretched, head bowed and tucked into his chest. All he was missing was the comfort toy and the blanket. But an observant person couldn't fail to notice the hands carefully crossed over the chest, the fists clenched as tight as tension wires. A closer look would also have revealed grey eyes glittering with carefully suppressed anger beneath lowered lashes and the breath that turned to white clouds of ice in the freezing air. 

Squall didn't notice the unnatural cold, unaware as it spread around him in roiling waves for it left him untouched at the center. He was focused down and inside himself, angry with Quistis for her unwelcome intrusion but equally angry with himself for reacting to her clever tactics. He'd not meant to give so much away, but she'd blindsided him with that casual question about Rinoa and he'd been tired enough and surprised enough to react. He knew she meant well, was probably even concerned about him, but he hated it when she tried to interfere in his personal life. He hadn't even decided yet what he really felt about Rinoa's necessary defection. 

Hurt, hell yes, even a little betrayed perhaps but for all that he knew that the rage that boiled beneath the surface had nothing to do with his feelings for her, and everything to do with himself. Anger tinged the air he breathed, and his vision could flash to white in an instant with a rage so intense it was like a firestorm. So far he'd kept it contained but he could feel it slowly eroding his barriers from the inside. 

Something was very wrong and he knew it, but strangers, or worse, friends, poking and prodding at him was just unacceptable. They would fuss, they would give him psych tests, they would restrict his life out of good intentions, and damned if he'd let that happen. 

For the first time since he'd agreed to take on this position, he seriously contemplated yanking Cid back to his duties. He had agreed to be acting Headmaster only, a temporary position until Cid returned and relieved him of it. SeeD Commander he was and that was something he was suited for, but the administration of Garden was not what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. And although Cid had made noises a few times about seriously retiring, Squall had flatly refused to step into his shoes in any kind of permanent way. Someone else could run Garden if Cid didn't feel up to it anymore, Quistis maybe, or Xu. 

Squall shifted restlessly in his seat but couldn't get rid of the image of Cid's happy smile the last time they'd talked. The man deserved the downtime, perhaps more than anyone else, and he was reluctant to drag the absent Headmaster back to his job before the man was ready to return on his own. Not to mention that he'd probably have to explain exactly why he wanted to be relieved so urgently. 

You could bet hard gil that as soon as Cid figured out what was going on, there would be psych majors all over his ass in a heartbeat. Edea would be right behind them too to keep tabs on his progress. Better after all to leave Cid where he was and figure things out on his own. What he needed most of all was sleep. With a clear head he could work out the rest. 

He glanced at the clock on the wall and realized the lunch hour was rapidly drifting away. He wasn't hungry really, but he'd been closeted in this office since too damned early this morning. It was time for a break. He stood up and the cold around him broke with an almost audible snap but Squall only rubbed his arms absently as walked back to his desk. With narrowed gaze he stared at the leftover paperwork, and rapidly went over in his head the afternoon's schedule. If he put off the trade reports, asked his secretary to reschedule the conference call with Trabia and Galbadia, did a bit of fancy footwork with the requisition forms ... yes, that could work, he could make it work. 

Impulsively decided, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the office that suddenly seemed too small and choking. 

It was ridiculously easy; his secretary unphased by his sudden shuffling and hasty retreat. She gave him another of those pretty smiles and he felt a vague guilt at the abandonment but too relieved to really care. He took the back ways of Garden to his quarters, using service corridors where possible since he very definitely did not want to bump into anybody he knew. It was good to be the Commander, for having the master key to every door in Garden was immensely useful. 

He made it to his quarters without encountering a single soul. He closed his front door and locked it with hands that shook ever so faintly. Leaning on the door, he hooked a finger into his front pocket and removed the incriminating bottle of pills. 

His gaze was bleak, bitterly aware that even if he despised the weakness that drove him to rely on this crutch, at this point he didn't dare refuse it. His hand clenched abruptly on the pills and he thrust himself angrily away from the door. He found his personal comm unit badge on the table where he'd thrown it last and deactivated the thing. There was nothing he could do about a system wide Garden emergency announcement, but if the pills the good doctor had given him were anything like the last set, his room could be on fire and he'd sleep through the event. 

He kept going through the small living area and entered the bedroom. He yanked his shirt impatiently over his head with one hand and dropped it to the floor, using his foot to kick the door shut. Closing the curtains tight took only a moment and he stood there in the sudden gloom, suddenly and desperately tired. 

He sat down on the bed and fumbled with the lid of the bottle. It finally gave, twisting open in his strong hands and he tapped out a single, yellow pill. It was the smallest thing he'd ever seen, barely half the size of his littlest fingernail. It stared up at him balefully from the palm of his hand. Cursing, Squall jammed the reluctant lid back onto the bottle and tossed it onto his headboard with a violent motion. Before he could change his mind he swallowed the damn thing dry. 

He reached down and slid off his boots, letting them fall haphazardly from his hands. The buckles on his belts were a little tougher, but he persevered and eventually they were off as well to jangle discordantly to the floor. The pants he left on; it was too much effort to bother struggling with the leather. Gratefully he sprawled on the bed, stretching out on his stomach. He clutched a pillow under his head and determinedly closed his eyes. 

Although it was the middle of the day, it was a deep twilight in his room and very little noise penetrated. For a while Squall concentrated on his breathing, feeling himself start to relax as tension drained away. There was a floating feeling that was almost pleasant. Without really being aware of it, his breathing slowed and deepened as the drug began to virulently circulate through his system. Finally, he drifted away from the waking world without ever opening his eyes. 

For awhile all was still as Squall slept but gradually he started to twitch as his dream cycle began. Moaning in his sleep, a light sweat broke out over his body and he began to jerk in dream reaction. The drug held him under though, held him down when his own movements would have long since woken him up out of nightmare. Rigid on his bed, Squall trembled and cried out, the sound swallowed by the blank walls. 

It always started in darkness, a fragment of memory. This was a place of flickering twilight and the random flash of soundless lightning. Zell stood rigid at his side with Irvine a solid warmth at his back, companionable in his accustomed silence. They had walked him into hell at the end, these two, had stood side by side with him at the last when the world had fallen apart. It was fitting that they be here now, breathing softly at his side. 

Through the darkness he could hear their enemies pacing them. Squall held Lionheart tighter, its blue flame another familiar comfort in this strange place. They waited together, and Squall didn't turn as he felt Irvine's hand stroke his hair once, comforting and strong. Zell flashed him a cocky smile as Irvine put a hand on his shoulder and they moved into darkness, using Lionheart as the guide. 

When it finally began, there was no fear, no remorse. Lionheart raged in his hand even as Exeter spoke over his shoulder, Zell flashing like lightning incarnate. They killed and killed and killed; blood like wine as their enemies broke upon them and fell before the unstoppable wind that they were. Squall laughed even as Zell danced, as Irvine spoke in tongues of flame and terror. They were always meant to be here, meant to be the demons of death and destruction as the blood stained his pale skin the color of hatred. It was all the same in this place that was all places. An eternity, an instant, it was the same and then there were no more to slay. 

Squall stood panting, grinning crazily as he heard the shells strike the floor as Irvine reloaded. Zell had frozen again, listening intently in the dimness. Eyes gleamed in the fitful light as Zell watched the darkness, sparks flashing in his hair as he turned to grin at them both. 

"This way," he pointed and began to drift away. 

Irvine moved around Squall, so close his hair whispered over Squall's skin as the gunslinger hefted Exeter to his shoulder. Belatedly Squall realized he couldn't see Zell anymore. For the first time a breath of fear touched his spine and he hurried after Irvine, not willing to let his other lodestone out of his sight. He followed behind the tall form of the cowboy, Irvine turning a head occasionally to flash him a pinball smile. 

"Keep up Squall," Irvine said happily, "you don't want to miss the best part." Their footsteps echoed oddly in this place, as if the ground was father away than one thought. 

They approached a lighter section of the darkness and it swelled and surged as if to meet them as they came closer. Zell knelt at the edge of the brightness, eagerly straining forward. As the other two came up behind them, he turned his head to grin at them. 

"You're late," he said gaily, his fangs flashing white. "C'mon Squall, you always miss the fun." 

Squall felt himself hesitate on the edge of the circle, suddenly dreading the light. With a sound of impatience, Irvine laid a heavy hand between his shoulderblades and pushed. Stumbling, Squall almost but Irvine and Zell surged up behind him as if he'd broken the wall that kept them out. For a timeless instant they stood bathed in light, the smell of ozone and thunder trembling in that liquid air. 

And then She came. 

Like a nightmare made flesh She fell through the light. Incarnate hatred, She reached for them and Lionheart flashed even as Exeter roared and over all Zell's laughter like his heart was breaking. 

Squall fought, fought with everything that he was, everything that he once might have been. Again and again he lost her to the light even as her talons reached out of darkness to rake his skin to tatters. She whirled in his arms and broke him open to bleed red life onto the shifting, whispering ground. Again and yet again Zell laughed, a crazed sound of hard lightning in this place. It was life, slamming back into him, raising him higher and higher into agony and rage. 

He couldn't hear Exeter anymore. It was Irvine's savage voice that sang to him now, waves of green healing riding his body even as implacable Zell forced him to his feet again and again. Squall screamed his rage, his terrible, impotent grief as pieces of himself crumbled under the onslaught. He screamed but still he fought, Lionheart a living, twisting thing in his hands as he struggled to keep them all alive. 

And then She was there, raging in that hard edged light. This was the time, and this was finally the place. A step, a languid twist of the hip and wrist and there was only the razor blue heat that slid like velvet through the heavy space. Lionheart sang, for she was sweet as honey, clear as glass and he had desired her life for an eternity. It was perfection of a kind. 

High and clear she screamed, blood like molten gold pouring from her broken eyes. It burned his flesh like acid, but Lionheart only roared his joy. 

On and on that terrible wail of anger and vengeance, even as she fell away from the him. Only the crazed sound remained, louder and louder as it battered at his mind. He fell to his knees, Lionheart forgotten on the ground as that wave of hatred crashed and broke through him and he began to shatter inside like glass. 

Finally the sound trembled, faded - and was gone. Blessed silence, cool darkness fell over him as he knelt there shaking. His breathing was in his ears, tears like brands on his cold cheeks. He struggled to his feet, Lionheart a dull shadow of itself on the ground. 

"Don't you want it anymore?" 

Irvine stood off to his right, looking at him with a brooding expression. Zell sat cross-legged at his feet, one arm snaking up Irvine's leg as he leaned against his friend. The cowboy cocked his head and touched a finger to his hat to move it up from his eyes. 

If you don't want it, I'll take it." His tone was threatening and Squall looked down at the weapon at his feet. 

Shaking, he reached to pick it up. He hesitated for a breath with his hand above the grip. Then Lionheart's flame flared to life again in his hands as the shock of it burned up his arm like fire. Irvine smiled, approval on his face as Squall gritted his teeth from the pain. 

A chuckle began in the darkness, a laugh that swelled, deep and mocking. Squall looked up in panic, the tears still frozen on his face. 

"Can't leave well enough alone, can you, Leonhart?" came that achingly familiar voice. 

It wasn't as though the light revealed him, but more like the darkness slipped away to edge his form in shadow. Tall, arrogant, that smile blazing on his face like the sun. Squall blinked away the tears to focus on the Seifer who still laughed with something that was almost joy. The Knight was unchanged, short blond hair rakish and nearly glowing with light, the crosses on his coat stark and wet. This time the rage was welcome, building inside and warming the empty spaces that were so achingly cold. Squall stalked forward, Lionheart growling once more in his hand. This time he reveled in the pain as Lionheart sang sweet violence to his heart. 

"Dance with me," Seifer invited and spread his arms wide. 

Squall lunged, the blue chaos that was the gunblade a storm imprint in the darkness. Seifer was gone, even as his disembodied voice floated from the right, mocking and cold. 

"Pay attention Squall. You'll never figure it out if you don't concentrate." 

He whirled but Seifer was half-hidden in the dim light, his smile cold and brilliant even as he crooked a finger to summon him onward. 

Irvine was there, barring his way. His lean body pressed up against Squall's as if to hold him back, honey-scented breath caressing his face. 

"For luck," Irvine whispered even as copper waves tumbled around them both. 

The kiss was hard and sweet as jade eyes burned into his, paralyzing him with their brilliant intensity. There could be no defense against that color and Squall trembled in Irvine's arms. It was unbidden desire that choked him, twisting low and deep in his belly. He was frozen, hating and yet wanting the feeling that devoured him even as Irvine's kiss danced along his bones. Lionheart blazed with cold light, burning like ice in his hand until he was crucified between those two overwhelming vertigos of pain. 

Then with a scent of cinnamon and gunpowder Irvine was gone and it was Zell pressed against him, hard and cruel. The blonde tasted of lightning and storms, and Squall whimpered as Zell licked his tears away. It was divine. It was torture and he shook with emotions he didn't understand and refused to name. With a final kiss and a smile like wildfire, Zell was gone and Irvine with him. The darkness closed over him, empty and cold. 

The sound of his breathing echoing intimately in that darkness. His lips burned and he could still taste the sweetness in his mouth, mingled with the copper of blood. 

A sudden arm snaked out of the darkness and encircled his waist, pulling him roughly into a tight embrace. That terrible, smoky voice whispered in his ear as warm breath caressed the nape of his neck. 

"Don't you want to dance?" 

"No!" 

Squall whirled but Seifer had already melted away. He caught sight of the retreating grey trench coat as Seifer walked away and anguish boiled in his throat. 

"Don't you leave me!" he screamed. 

"I'm not leaving. You're just never look in the right places." 

Seifer's voice drifted back to him, caressing and angry at the same time. Squall charged blindly forward, lost in darkness with only Lionheart seemingly real in his hand. He halted, angry and confused as laughter floated again through the void. It was a mocking, caressing sound; Seifer at his most playful and most dangerous. 

"Poor Commander, all dressed up and nowhere to go." 

Confused, Squall looked down and realized he was wearing his SeeD uniform. A stuffed kitten was clutched in the hand that wasn't holding Lionheart. 

"I have the key, you just have to find me," the voice promised, dark and rich. 

Squall felt the ice drift over his skin again, sheathing his rage in chains of remote silence. He knew what to do now, knew it and acted on it. He put down the little stuffed animal and touched the soft fur with Lionheart. 

"Griever," he whispered. 

The cat yawned its predator smile, sharp fangs flashing in the glimmering void. He followed the great cat as it padded through the dream place on silent feet. Light again swelled in the distance and as they neared it, the cat bounded forward, a growl rumbling along the air. When Squall strode into the light, Seifer was there, kneeling as he caressed the great cat. 

Gone was the trench coat and he was bare to the waist, golden flesh like marble in this lost place. Squall's breath caught and the pounding of his heart trembled through his fingers. Seifer stood and blazing eyes caught his as Griever yowled his happiness. The firecross was emblazoned still on Seifer's arms and the blood trickled down his strong arms to stain Griever's fur. His blue eyes were alive with malice and welcome as Squall hesitated, suddenly afraid to advance. 

"Clever Commander. Griever always knows the way," Seifer whispered intensely. The tall blonde slid a step closer, Griever pressed tight against his side as if for support. "What is it you want?" the Knight asked, cocking his head sideway, to bare the clean line of his throat. That husky voice shivered along Squall's skin, trembling over the ice. "What is it you need?" Seifer's skin gleaming gold and red as the blood fell from his fingers in drops of fire. 

He glared at Seifer across the intervening space. This was the true enemy, the one who denied him, who defied him, the one who always left him alone in the echoing dark. 

"I'll never forgive you!" he choked and sprang forward. Lionheart was a streaming corona of implacable intent. Seifer never moved, a smile playing over his cruel lips. The pure light that was the blade speared his side, straight and true as it sank through flesh and bone like light through water. 

And still Seifer smiled down at him, malice dancing in his electric blue eyes. 

"I am the key," he whispered cryptically. 

They were so close now with Lionheart buried in his heart. Seifer leaned forward, his breath caressing Squall's face, warm and shocking. He could feel the heat of Seifer's body radiating into his own and when Seifer pulled him closer, he did not resist. Like a mockery of a heartbeat Lionheart pulsed in his hand. Griever was a warm presence at their side, more felt than seen. 

"What is it you need?" Seifer whispered again, a murmur at his throat as teeth bit into skin. 

Squall shook with fire and froze with ice, heartbeat crazily moving against Seifer's lips as they traveled over his exposed throat. The darkness overhead was shot with falling stars. Teeth bit gently into the hollow of his shoulder and Squall closed his eyes, letting the emptiness roar inside like a white wind. 

"Blood," he whispered. "Blood to wash it all away, make it clean again." 

Squall heard his own voice from far away, echoing oddly in this strange place that glittered over both of them. 

"For you, everything," Seifer breathed and his lips met Squall's. Wild and sweet and insane, Seifer's taste riding his senses even Griever keened his sorrow into the air. 

And the blood came, pouring down Seifer's body from the crosses on his arms, from his mouth as he kissed Squall savagely, pouring it into him as Squall choked on the crimson tide and screamed. 

______________________________________________ 

He couldn't remember who he was for a moment, eyelids fluttering in confusion. He blinked, his eyes narrowed slits as he stared groggily across the dark room. At some unknown point night had fallen and his room was as quiet and dark as a tomb. 

He tried to remember what the hell was going on. His head ached, pounding like a drum and his dry mouth tasted like copper. He licked his lips, forcing himself up on one elbow. Tumbled hair brushed his cheeks as he stared blankly down at the pillow, haphazardly pulling pieces of himself back out of the air. Damn it, he'd been dreaming again - he could still smell the slick scent of fear on his skin. He groped after it, and this time managed to get the tail end of mocking laughter and the feeling that Griever had somehow been there, alive and warm. 

He frowned but it was all slipping away, eluding him like small silver fish. He sighed in frustration. 

Finally he gave it up as a lost cause and with effort pushed himself to a sitting position. He finally managed to get bare feet on the floor as he untangled himself from the twisted covers. A sharp look at the chronometer said nine o'clock and change. Squall blinked in the darkness, surprising registering on his face. He'd been sleeping for nearly ten hours? 

It seemed unreal. He ran a rough hand through his hair and then across his face as he tried to shake the last of the drug off. Damn, those pills weren't supposed to have quite that much of a kick. And they were supposed to keep him from dreaming as well, but that didn't seem to have worked at all. But ten hours was damned near amazing, nightmares that he couldn't remember or no, and Squall got to his feet with something approaching pleasure. 

Perhaps his problems weren't all so insurmountable after all. 


	5. dinnertime at the OK Corral

"No freakin' way!" 

This from the startled throat of Irvine. It came oddly off his lips, since he was currently sprawled over Zell's living room couch like a lazy cat, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. His eyes were wide in astonishment though and gave him a slightly froglike appearance that she would have found amusing if she wasn't already so annoyed. Well, ok, it was amusing regardless of her mood. 

"Yes 'freakin' way," Quistis growled back. She decorated the only chair in the living room rigidly, her anxiety level not allowing her to relax into its battered embrace. Irvine continued to stare at her, and she raised an impatient hand to forestall the comment she could see rising to his well-shaped lips. "And no, I have no real idea what prompted her to do it." 

"Prompted who to do what? What'd I miss?" 

Craning her neck, Quistis could just make out Zell as he came in his front door, the take out bags clutched tightly in his hands. He grinned at his friends, closing the door absently by leaning on it before moving into his living room with his usual bouncing stride. Even relaxed, he moved like he was about to explode at a moment's notice, or start flying. 

Quistis watched with a sour expression as Zell kicked off his shoes into a corner, not even watching where they fell. The irrepressible blonde happily shoved Irvine's sprawled legs off his couch and flopped down, leaning to put the steaming bags on the coffee table. His bright eyes stared first at Quistis, and then at her annoyed expression, moved back over to Irvine. 

Quistis waved a hand impatiently, unwilling to explain again. The cowboy grinned, the shock fading from his face as he sat up against the couch arm, readjusting his legs from Zell's rude intrusion by putting a socked foot on Zell's thigh. 

"I dunno Trepe," he said cryptically for Zell's benefit, "I think I'm likin' the idea. It's inspired even." Quistis groaned and Zell looked back and forth between them, the confusion obvious on his transparent face. 

"C'mon guys, give. What're you talking about?" 

Irvine didn't reply, still grinning at Quistis as he snaked a long arm over to one of the bags. Opening it at the top, he sighed happily as the steam rose in a sudden cloud. 

"Damn, but I love Ryo's noodles. Extra portions for me!" he exclaimed greedily. He reached into the bag and started pulling out the plastic containers, stacking them on the floor before discarding the paper bag over his shoulder behind Zell's couch. Quistis winced but Zell didn't appear to object so she let it slide. Wasn't her fault if her two friends were slobs. 

Irvine handed one of the innocuous containers to Zell, before snagging a second for himself. He offered the third to Quistis with a raised eyebrow but she declined silently, getting up to peer into the remaining bags for her own favorite, the suicide rice balls. They weren't hard to find, the fragrant aroma nearly overpowering the smell of the rest of the food on the table. She retreated back to her chair, tucking her legs up comfortably as she juggled the steaming box in her hands. She waited until Zell had given up on questions in favor of food, and had begun stuffing the tasty noodles into his mouth. Then with a wicked gleam in her eyes, she dropped the bombshell on him. 

"Selphie's invited Seifer to the Summer Festival." 

Zell choked, noodle bits spraying everywhere. His head snapped up in disbelief, strands hanging out of his mouth like a catfish. Quistis had to laugh, and Irvine leaned forward to pound his friend energetically on the back. 

"Sweet-sorceress-on-a-stick, what the hell was she thinking?" he finally garbled out. Quistis smiled sweetly at him, the annoyance bright in her eyes as she popped a rice ball in her mouth. 

"Who knows," she replied, letting the raging spice spread over her tongue like a small fire. "Selphie's got some weird bug in her ear, and the best I could get out of her was something about Squall and Seifer's ongoing one-upmanship. I think," she said darkly, "that Selphie's trying to yank Squall back into reality by the short hairs." 

Zell absently licked noodles into his mouth as he shoved Irvine back to his side of the couch with one straight arm to the chest. The cowboy sprawled, wincing when his back impacted the hard edge of the couch arm. The noodle box in his hand never wavered throughout the entire event and the two friends settled back in amiable comfort. Irvine propped his feet back up again on Zell's thigh as his friend settled back. 

The sounds of contented munching filled the air for a few minutes as they all pondered Selphie's tenuous grip on her own reality. 

"Gotta give the girl credit," Zell said finally, glancing at his friends. "It'll probably work. Nothing gets to Squall faster than Seifer's attitude." 

Quistis snorted. "Get real, Dincht," she riposted back. "There are other ways to get under Squall's skin without resorting to an outbreak of insanity." 

"I think I'm agreein' with Zell," Irvine said suddenly, surprising Quistis. He glanced around at them, his eyes unwontedly serious. "Selphie's more in tune w' things than we give her credit for sometimes. If she thinks that pullin' out the big guns is the way to go on this one, then I'm willin' to back her up on it." 

"But this is Seifer we're talking about!" Quistis all but wailed. "That's like going up against a Grat with an Ultima spell in your back pocket! Look, I know, I know," she said as she waved a rice ball in the air to head them off, "Squall's backslid and fallen into his original 'touch-me-not' attitude, but give the guy a break. The love of his life's moved on to other things without him and that's gotta hurt, no matter which way you carve it. Squall's just going back to the tried and true - he'll break out of it eventually on his own." Quistis looked at her two friends across the coffee table. "Won't he?" she asked pleadingly. 

Zell glanced at Irvine, who shrugged his shoulders. 

"Who knows?" the cowboy said softly. "Though I don't think any of us really believe that Rinoa was Squall's one an' only. Somethin' tells me that there's more goin' on with the Commander than the breakup of a relationship that was never really on solid ground to begin with." Irvine chewed his noodles thoughtfully, enjoying the tangy sweetness as he thought about what he wanted to say. 

"Squall's silent, yes, uncommunicative, hell yes, cold as an iceberg and half as cuddly, that's our beloved leader to the crosshairs. But y'all got to have noticed that the man doesn't _talk_ anymore. Orders, sure, he's got those down like nobody's business. He wants you to do something, he tells you in no uncertain terms and you do it. But casual stuff, like 'hey, how's it going?' or 'wanna go get a hotdog?' - that's just plain disappeared from his conversational repertoire." Irvine looked around at his friends, his handsome face arranged in unusual lines of concern. "It can't just be me that he's doing this to." 

The other two mulled it over, eating the food in their hands absently, Quistis in fact popping a rice ball into her mouth without even an anticipatory flinch. 

"I got something for you guys," Quistis finally said, as a strange thought popped into her head. "I know I told you that I cornered Squall in his office last week, and the total ice wall I ran into. Well, I'm not sure if I mentioned that it was almost literally an ice wall. " Zell and Irvine looked at her in confusion, with almost identical expressions on their faces. It would have been cute if she hadn't been thinking so hard, trying to put her impressions into words without sounding like she'd gone around the bend. "After I got out of his office, the foyer felt like a warm sauna I was so cold. It took me ages to get warm again, even though I was wearing my SeeD jacket at the time. What the hell's with that, I wonder?" 

Irvine still looked confused, but Zell's head jerked up at the description, his eyes wide and anxious. 

"Oh hell, I _know_ you didn't mention that before. Quistis," he said urgently, "what're the chances Squall's still junctioned?" 

Quistis' jaw dropped as the meaning of Zell's words impressed into her brain. 

"Oh damn it Zell," she breathed in a shocked whisper, "I never even though of that. I just thought it was some oddball air conditioning thing and forgot about it. And I call myself an Instructor," she groaned. 

Now it was Irvine's turn to stare back and forth between his friends, confusion written large across his moulded features. "Ok," he said after a moment, "you're scarin' me. What'm I missin' here?" 

Zell ignored him. 

"What was Squall's first junction?" he asked grimly. He was rewarded as Quistis' eyes got larger. 

"Shiva," she whispered back. The two SeeD's stared at each other, both of them sorting out the implications of what they'd said 

"Earth to cadets, come in cadets." Irvine's waving hand broke into their locked concentration. "What's so bad about Squall bein' junctioned? You guys do that guardian shit all the time." 

Zell's face was grim, making him look older and more adult, as if something had just aged him. When he spoke, his voice was hard and flat, very different from his normal easygoing pattern. 

"We use guardians because sometimes its necessary, but according to the Balamb combat handbook, you're never supposed to junction more than two, and never for longer than a few weeks. The longer you junction one, the more, uh, in tune with it you are," he explained, looking sideways at Irvine. He waved a hand in frustration, trying to describe something in words that one could really only feel. Quistis took up the explanation as Zell ran an impatient hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in even higher spikes. 

"Come on Kinneas, you remember, you were _there_. What did it feel like to call Leviathan to your hand?" 

Quistis' eyes were intent on his, and Irvine shuddered with sudden, suppressed memory. Rattled, he put his noodles down the table, suddenly not very hungry any more. He hugged himself without realizing it, remembering how Leviathan had ripped through his mind like a tidal wave, rolled him over and dragged him down to drown in dark waters. Zell broke out of his own furious thought to lean over and rub a hard, comforting hand over his friend's leg. Irvine grinned weakly at him, feeling a faint ghost of alien emotions color his reactions. 

"Man, I'd almost forgotten what that felt like," he murmured unsteadily. "Guess it's somethin' you just don't want to deal with in your wakin' moments." 

"Yeah," Zell breathed in sympathy, "it's a little like plugging yourself into a light socket, only a thousand times more intense. For that moment, you _are_ the guardian, and not yourself at all anymore. It's scary as hell, and utter rapture at the same time. That's why we're not supposed to use them unless its absolutely necessary, and to unjunction them at the end of every mission." 

Zell's voice was subdued, but Irvine was too wrapped up in his sudden recollection to notice. Quistis gave the blonde a sharp look, but Zell waved her off her concern with a couple of fingers. She subsided, letting him exorcise his own ghosts. 

They were all quiet as Irvine regained his equanimity. Quistis rubbed a couple of fingers over her lips, worry and concern rising in her eyes. Absently she licked the corner of her mouth, where some sauce was smudged. When she spoke again, her voice was dry, teacher-mode, but neither of her friends were fooled. 

"Use one guardian a few times, and it will come to your aid faster and more willingly, as you build rapport with it, creating the pathway that it needs to travel in your mind. SeeD training is meant to prevent or delay any bonding, which is why guardians are swapped around so frequently and so casually here. Nobody wants to risk phasing with one." She lapsed into silence, thinking furiously. Zell glanced uncertainly at her and then back to Irvine who still looked a little lost. 

"Think about it cowboy, think about carrying a guardian around inside you all the time, all day, every day. Waking or sleeping, its always there, at the tips of your fingers, in the back of your mind, needing to be needed." Zell's eyes were bright, his voice carrying a fever-tone of some unknown emotion. "They love you, they want to be with you and eventually you start to love them back, you can't help it. Even if you don't summon them, they're always there in that corner of your mind, wanting and needing. It's hard to shake that kind of devotion, and after a while you don't want to." Zell looked away from Irvine, his hands clenching into fists as he stared at them with blank eyes. "It's an incredible feeling, when they love you like that." 

Quistis was looking at Zell in sympathy and Irvine had the feeling that Zell was more than intimately familiar with this particular guardian problem he'd never heard of. Quistis spoke up again, taking up the thread of explanation and drawing Irvine's attention away from the distracted Zell. 

"The guardian exercises we practice here in Balamb are meant mostly to learn how to seal yourself away from all that power, to just let it happen when you need it and stuff it away in a little box in your mind when you're done with it. That's why you have to be SeeD to get a guardian, you need to be trained in how to handle one. You, Irvine, were an absolutely special case, being that we were in the middle of a mission that nobody expected to take more than a few days." 

Quistis took a deep breath, liking this possible explanation less and less. If Squall had done it, if he'd kept his guardian junctioned... she took up the thread again as Irvine's eyes looked more and more worried. 

"That's why on longer SeeD missions, it's common to be given two guardians to carry. If you call more than one constantly they almost seem to, well, conflict with each other, neither of them gaining a solid place in your mind. I think," she said quietly, as if trying out the idea in her head, "that's one of the things that kept us sane during the War. All of us, we had to have had four or five of the things all the time, but none of them were able to phase with us fully before being displaced by the next. 

"But if its true," Zell continued grimly as Quistis faltered, in a voice that Irvine had never heard him use before, "and Squall's kept Shiva junctioned to him, he's had her since the damn War started. And that is hell and away past the book mandated two-weeks exposure." 

All three of them were quiet, sorting out the implications in their heads, going over recent memories to either confirm or deny what they suspected. Quistis and Zell locked gazes and some dark understanding flowed between them, a shared knowledge that excluded Irvine. 

"Is it likely though?" Irvine asked. "I mean, that fact that Quistis thought Squall's office was cold one day is pretty thin t' hang all this suspicion on. And Squall just ain't the type to go against Garden rules." 

Quistis was already shaking her head even before Irvine finished. Even Zell gave him a wry look. 

"Don't look at the sober, strait-laced exterior that passes for Squall's poker face," Quistis said ruefully, "and think that's all there is to it. Remember, I was his teacher and I know exactly how much trouble he could get into. Most of it usually involving fighting and Seifer.". 

"Yeah," said Zell with a certain amount of admiration and relish in his voice, obviously making the attempt to shake off the mood that had fallen over him. "You wouldn't know that Irvine, being from that backwater Garden and all." Zell ducked as Irvine grabbed a stray pillow and threw it at him, fielding it easily with his quick hands. "Squall only follows the rules because most of the time they go his way." 

"Backwater Garden, huh? I'll meet you out on the shootin' range, and we'll see how well your fancy dance moves stack up against Exeter." 

Zell only grinned and continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. 

"He follows 'em only so far as they don't inconvenience him. When they get in his way, or he doesn't agree with 'em, he just steps right over the rulebook as if it didn't exist and keeps going. It can be damn scary following him sometimes because he lets nothing stand in his way, and I do mean nothing." Zell threw the pillow back at Irvine, a gleam in his blue eyes. "The Sorceress War is just the latest, finest example of Squall's outlook on life. Ultimecia never knew what she was up against." 

"And if I can get your attention back to the matter at hand," interjected Quistis dryly, "what that pretty much boils down to is not _if_ Squall would keep a junctioned guardian against regulations, but whether he actually did or not. But you're right Irvine, a cold office could mean nothing more sinister than a faulty air conditioning unit." She chewed a fingernail absently, before finally shrugging, looking at the boys ruefully. 

"I guess I just don't know," she admitted. "Squall's normally locked down so tight that the only way I'd know if Shiva was still junctioned would be if he summoned her in front of me to freeze my ass for asking. Anyone else I'd have a shot at, but our fair Commander doesn't let anything slip unless you beat it out of him with a stick. And he's already stopped reacting to the Rinoa button, so I can't use that one any more." 

"Seifer's comin'," Irvine drawled after a moment. 

Quistis and Zell glared at him so quickly that he threw his hands up in mock defense. 

"Didn't we all just agree that Seifer can rile Squall up without even half tryin'? You wanna know if the Commander has an illegal guardian up that non-existent sleeve? Seifer will flush it out of him three minutes after walkin' in Garden's front gate, three an' a half if Squall has to come down the elevator to meet him." 

"Oh, that's nasty," Quistis said after a moment with a reluctant grin on her lips. "Just plain nasty. Seifer's never junctioned, he won't know what hit him." 

"An' if we're just imaginin' things, then the boys can exchange some nasty words and its fun and games in the Garden, just like old times. But if Shiva ends up doing a little ice dance all over Seifer's arrogant... ah, body," Irvine said quickly with a glance to Quistis, "then we'll be there, an' prepared to deal with it. Right?" he asked hopefully. 

Zell said nothing, but the grin that was slowly plastering itself all over his face was pretty indicative of the fantasy he was playing in his head. Eventually, even Quistis nodded her agreement. Irvine leaned forward again to recapture his forgotten noodle box. 

"So there you go," he said smugly. The other two looked at him quizzically as he took a healthy scoop of food. "Selphie really _does_ know what she's doin'." 

And ducked as they both threw pillows at him. 


	6. reverend cowboy

The day dawned bright, and for some people, painfully early. 

Zell however, wasn't one of those people. This was Summer Festival after all, the biggest event of the year and eagerly anticipated by students, teachers and Balamb citizens alike. Since before dawn the Faculty had been setting up the tents, pavilions, food stands, games and contests on the grassy verge outside the Garden proper. When the sun officially broke over the horizon, the Garden was transformed from its normal military efficiency in a cross between a carnival and a county fair. 

For the first time in Zell's memory, he didn't have to threaten bodily harm to get a hot dog. 

It was barely breakfast but the concourse was already busy and getting more so by the minute as the SeeD candidates woke up and the guests started to trickle in. Unable to resist the temptation and not really willing to even try, Zell had a beautiful dog in each hand and was taking turns contentedly nibbling from each. He sighed in pure bliss and smiled benevolently at everybody as he passed. This was the way it should be every day. The fact that it often wasn't just made it all the sweeter. 

The blonde instructor strolled through the Garden, trading greetings with the students he knew and the friends he worked with. He had until nine thirty to enjoy himself before he started his shift at the dunk tank. After that, he was scheduled to supervise the relay and obstacle course races until noon. Then he was free as a bird until three when all the SeeD instructors had been roped into weapon displays. 

Zell vaguely knew that Quistis and Irvine had worked out some kind of trick shooting demonstration but he didn't feel like being that coordinated. He'd probably just do one of his personal training exercises; they were energetic and flashy enough to impress a crowd. And since a lot of his students would be watching it would be a good reminder of what they were working towards. He wasn't sure of the order of the displays - he hoped he'd be able to watch what everyone else had cooked up. It really wasn't often that he got to see what the others were doing. 

And speak of one of the devils. 

"Hey Trepe!" Zell called out, trying to talk around a badly timed piece of hot dog. Swallowing painfully, he waved energetically until she spotted him and raised a slim hand to wave back. He put thought into action and jogged over to where she was watching the crowd from the main foyer. Her cool eyes sparkled with good humor, and she seemed very relaxed, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a grey tank that had certainly seen better days. She was leaning casually against the small wall bordering the walkway, watching the crowd drift by with reserved but happy eyes. 

A grin split Zell's face as he fell to his knees to slide to her delicately crossed ankles. He began worshipping extravagantly, the effect only slightly spoiled by the hotdog in each hand. 

"Oh great and wondrous Trepe," he intoned happily, "goddess of all things tight that aren't a uniform. I'm your humble, unworthy slave." He grinned up at her from his vantage point at her knees. A small blush touched her cheeks even as she gave him a mock scowl, nudging him with one booted foot. 

"Oh get up, you big ass," she said sharply. 

For effect, Zell did a snap back flip, sauntering back to lay a kiss on her cheek. She gave him a friendly push to the chest as scattered applause burst from the crowd for the impromptu show. Quistis rubbed her cheek in mock annoyance as Zell settled himself beside her on the half-wall. They fell into a companionable silence for a moment, watching the crowd together. 

Zell took this opportunity to finish both his hot dogs and contemplated getting more. Regretfully he decided to abstain for the moment, since he'd be hitting the water fairly frequently in the next little while. He stole a glance at Quistis who was looking far more relaxed than he'd seen her in ages. 

"Lookin' good this morning," Zell finally offered, "very _avant_-student. This a new look for you?" 

"Don't get used to it," she grumped with a remarkable lack of heat. "I have to judge the tug of war contests at ten and I always end up dirty as hell." 

A vision of the self-possessed blonde in a mud bath flashed across Zell's mind. Now it was his turn to blush, thankful that he no longer had a hot dog to choke on. Quistis stared at him quizzically but thankfully didn't seem to follow the dive and wallow into the gutter than his mind had taken. Waving a hand in front of his face to cool off, Zell couldn't keep the inane grin off his face. To distract himself and her, he babbled the first thing that came to mind. 

"Seen Squall yet?" 

A slight frown crossed the other Instructor's face and her happy mood dimmed a little. She stared pensively at her booted feet. 

"I stopped by his quarters on the way down," she said quietly, "but there was no answer. I know that Laguna's coming in early this morning so I thought I'd go with him down to the docks; be a bit of moral support or a referee, whichever was needed more. But Squall's either not answering his door or he's hiding himself somewhere. Guess which option I think more likely," she concluded glumly. 

"Maybe he's trying to sleep in?" Zell offered. Quistis gave him an exasperated look to which Zell put up his hands in mock surrender. 

"C'mon Quistis, gimme a break. The Commander's gotta sleep sometime. If I was him and you were banging on _my_ door this early in the morning, I'd probably put a pillow over my head too." She glared at him and Zell ducked as if avoiding the laser beams. "Ok, ok, maybe he's hiding. Just offering an opinion here. No need to hurt a guy." 

"Keep your opinions to yourself, Dincht," she growled. Her tone lacked serious bite though and Zell took care to take no particular offense. He knew; hell, all of them knew that she cared too much to let it show easily. But thinking of Squall brought to mind the last time that particular subject had come up and he turned to Quistis, his humor dropping away. 

"Damn, I just remembered that we really need to keep close tabs on him today. Who knows when Seifer's gonna show up?" His eyes unfocused as scenarios occurred to him, beginning to play themselves out in gory detail in his mind. "This could get unbelievably messy, more quickly than I wanna think about," he said, as some of the grimmer ones presented themselves for inspection. 

Quistis leaned back a little more on the half-wall however, and held up a slim hand to forestall his words. 

"Got that one covered at least," she replied with a confirming nod of her head, as if satisfied with her efforts. "Fujin and Raijin are escorting him in, and Fu promised to call when they made the train switch in Timber. We'll have a couple of hours notice before he gets here. As I understand it though, they won't be here until early evening anyways. Fu was pretty close-mouthed about it, but I had the impression that Seifer wants to avoid most of the festivities." 

"But this is the best part!" Zell exclaimed, waving a hand to indicate the decorated concourse in specific, and the entire fair in general. 

"No arguments from me," Quistis replied, "but Seifer's a special case. I can imagine why he'd want to avoid large crowd situations. And I bet you can too if you think about it." 

"Still sorta sucks," Zell replied with a little heat. "Seifer was always really good at these games, and loved to prove it to everyone," muttering under his breath, "whether entirely necessary or not." 

"It's Seifer's decision," she reproved gently, ignoring his last comment. "The fact that he's coming at all is a good sign, no matter what Selphie had to say to get him here. I still want to strangle the girl whenever I think about it though. I wish she'd consulted me before she just went ahead and invited him, if only to save me the heart attack." 

"Huh?" Zell looked at her with a startled expression. "I thought that you thought this was a stupid idea. Now it sorta sounds like you approve. Change your mind?" 

Quistis stared out over the crowd. Hesitantly, she rearranged her thoughts a few times, trying to put into words what she felt. 

"When Selphie told me that Seifer was actually coming back to Garden, I was... appalled, I guess. He's been gone so long Zell, and I've been so angry with him." She stopped, fingers gripping the stone a little tighter. She stared blindly over the shifting crowd, for a moment lost to the present. Finally she sighed and continued in her soft voice. 

"After the trial… when he walked away… he was so adamant about staying away, about making himself a new life away from all the... from everything that happened. I guess... I have to say that I admired him for that, for at least trying to figure out for himself where it all went so horribly wrong." 

She came to a halt again even as Zell watched with compassionate eyes. There was so much between them, between all of them that it tied them together in ways that couldn't be explained, even if any of them had wanted to try. It was true that any friendships they had formed after the War were casual at best, even to Selphie who made friends simply by breathing. The ties that bound them together, that made them who they were had become so solid as to be almost visible to others. He didn't even think about it anymore - it simply was. And if Quistis couldn't find the right words, it didn't matter because he understood them anyways. 

Gently, Zell laid a hand over Quistis' where it rested on the rail; she gave him a small smile, feeling the warmth of his protection flare over her again. He worried more than he ever let on, and although he might fool others around him with his carefree ways, he didn't fool her anymore. She curled her fingers under his, returning the gesture before continuing. 

"I just felt that hauling Seifer back here would be overkill. But I guess I should really admit that I just didn't want deal with having him back in Garden again. He's a walking time bomb Zell, even at the best of times and damn it, it's just gotten back to something approaching normal. Squall and Seifer in close proximity to each other… is an invitation to disaster, no matter what romantic idea Selphie's got in her head." 

Quistis rubbed her forehead with a slender finger, a deep crease forming between her eyes. 

"But I've been watching Squall like a hawk the last couple of weeks," she admitted, "and there's something... something really wrong with him. He won't admit it, and every time I try and talk to him he just glares at me from behind those walls and walks away. Maybe... maybe Seifer can get through. Gods above know I can't." 

"Don't beat yourself up," Zell said, squeezing her fingers for a moment. "You're not the only one he's closed out." 

Quistis gave him a startled look, but then her eyes softened. She gave him a half-smile, understanding his underlying pain without words, before even that faded from her face. She almost whispered her next words, as if afraid that saying them louder would make them real. 

"If Seifer can't pull Squall out of himself, I think... I think we're going to lose him." 

That bald statement caused Zell to jerk back slightly, appalled. 

"Can't be! It's not that bad, surely?" he asked in a near whisper. 

Quistis gave him a sad look that haunted her eyes, although her face still maintained the facade of even reserve. 

"From the few things that Fujin let slip," she said softly, "I have a feeling that Seifer's in no better shape. In some strange way, those two almost seem to need each other, as odd as that sounds considering they've never been friends. But I do know that they haven't spoken since Squall bailed him out of the trial and Seifer disappeared. Damned if I know how Selphie tracked them down again, but that's Selphie for you." 

Quistis looked at Zell with an earnest expression, trying to form her thoughts and impressions into words that he might understand. 

"They've been at each other's throats for so long, I swear it's like some sort of desperation. It's just got to shake something loose in them to be together again, especially here at Garden. I don't think Squall can go on much longer the way he is, and he's getting worse, not better." 

"Yeah," Zell agreed on a puff of air, "he's a stubborn ass, our Commander. I know Irvine was going to try and corner him at some point, but I doubt he'll have any better luck than we did." He stopped for a moment as a thought occurred to him. "Does Seifer know all this?" he asked abruptly. "I mean, I know Selphie invited him and he's coming, but did she tell him its because we're worried about Squall?" 

Quistis pursed her lips for a moment and shook her head. 

"No, I don't think so. As I understand it, she told Fujin a little of what was going on and let her figure out what it would take to get Seifer here. He's walking in blind as far as I know, which makes me a little nervous." She stopped, and then corrected herself, giving the other blonde an honest look. "Ok, it makes me _very_ nervous but it can't be helped I suppose. I doubt either of the boys are going to take very well to being manipulated." 

A large swirl of kids went by, loud and happy and it startled both of them, jolting them out their self-contained focus. Surprised, they watched the kids with blank eyes until they'd passed by. It really wasn't that long ago that they would have been the ones making the noise and oblivious to the ones they disturbed. It was an odd feeling, for both of them. 

Zell leaned absently on the railing and chewed thoughtfully on what Quistis had said, his eyes starting to track the crowd again. 

"What happens if Seifer can't do it?" he finally offered back, very carefully not looking at her. "What if Seifer can't or won't play the old game, or if Squall refuses to be drawn out? Do we have any backup plans?" 

"Well," she said after a moment, a thread of dark humor running through her voice, "we could always try kicking their asses, separately or in tandem but I'd really rather not go that route. Somebody might get killed and damned if I want it to be me." 

"Amen to that sister," Zell replied absently, and then shuddered as the idea of that particular fight played itself out in his head. Zell was confident in himself and in his skills, hadn't he stood up with Squall and Irvine against that evil bitch Sorceress? That had been the toughest fight of his life but they'd won out in the end, damned if they hadn't. 

Problem was, Squall was the one who'd been right in her face while they'd bled themselves dry trying to keep him on his feet and swinging. But Squall had come through, had saved them all and damned if he wanted to face the guy across the steel of his gunblade. Truth be told, even the thought of facing the Commander or the Sorceress' Knight in a real fight gave him the outright chills. He really tried to avoid broken bones, especially if they were his own. 

A grimly humorous thought came to mind and he leaned over. 

"Let's hire Irvine. They'll never see it coming." 

Quistis choked with unexpected, startled laughter. Zell felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as her expression lightened, worry lines fading slightly from her face. 

"Damn it Dincht, unfair," she groaned, but offered up another small smile for his attempt at comfort. 

Zell glanced at his watch and groaned himself. 

"Gotta run Quistis, the dunk tank waits for no man. I'll catch up with you later, ok? We'll figure out some kinda plan to keep our two nutcases from killing each other while they sort out their issues." Zell stood up, his calm gaze continuing to hold hers for a moment. Concern, protection, support were all there and he held her hand a moment longer, squeezing gently as if to refute all her reasonable worries. 

She gave his callused fingers a reassuring pressure before releasing them to wave him off. Zell gave her a half salute before turning and bouncing away in his distinctive stride. Quistis watched him go with a slight smile before breaking away herself to head back up to the private quarters of the Commander. She just had time to do another check before she too was needed to man her own station. 

___________________________________________________ 

Squall wasn't in his quarters and truthfully hadn't been there the first time she'd checked on him. The SeeD Commander had been wandering Garden since before dawn, unable to sleep. In the predawn chill he'd grabbed his old jacket, unaccountably wanting the security it gave him. It was warm over his skin, the faint scent of the leather washing him in half-remembered memories. 

Eventually he'd wandered up to the top of Garden and had remained there ever since, watching the activity of the Faculty as they'd set up the Festival in the grey morning. Eventually the sun had risen through the morning clouds and burned off the lingering cold. Now it was almost too warm for the jacket but he perversely kept it on, not willing to abandon its comfortable, familiar embrace. 

From his vantage point on the command deck, Squall continued to watch the gaily decorated grounds with a closed expression. The warm morning breeze ruffled his hair gently but he didn't bother to rearrange the haphazard strands. From here, it looked like the Garden had suddenly and unexpectedly broken into bloom. The happy contented buzz of voices rose very clearly to the isolated Commander. 

Right at this moment he was probably supposed to be down at the docks, ready to welcome the Esthar president and entourage to Balamb. His gaze narrowed as his sense of duty nagged at him; but there was just no way he could face dealing with his irrepressible father. And no doubt he was also expected to be mingling at the Festival, being both SeeD Commander and the unwitting hero of the Sorceress War. Damned if he wanted to do that either. He was not a walking advertisement for Garden and SeeD, no matter what fantasies the tabloids wrote about him. 

So he hid from responsibility here, where only the sound of the wind had any reality. Here, where the air was clean and if he looked up, all he would see would be blinding sky. It was only a temporary refuge and he knew it; soon enough some enterprising soul would track him down and drag him out of his increasingly necessary solitude. 

Squall sighed but stayed leaning against the cool railing. Even the thought of walking among so many people gave him a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. His control was so damned ragged these days, the edge of nightmare barely blunted by the pills he'd been taking. He'd been getting more sleep at least, but it was starting to bleed into his waking life when he least expected it. Rage tinged nearly everything he touched, red and terrible, coloring his reactions to everything he did, everything he said. Moving through a crowd of well meaning people, all them wanting to touch, wanting to talk… at this moment he wasn't sure if he could handle it without reacting. And his reactions had become deadly swift. 

In desperation, he'd done everything he could think of, all the tricks that had worked for him before. He'd locked it all down tight and thrown up the strongest walls he had to keep it caged inside. 

It was only barely enough. He could feel it still, trembling below the surface. 

It was hardest when he was around the others, for they knew him the best and refused to leave him alone behind his cold barriers. In desperation, he'd taking to avoiding all of them as much as possible, keeping his dealings with them on a strictly professional basis. He could still function at there for it didn't touch his raw nerves, the requirements of duty a thin coating of soothing ice over his emotions. It was when they pushed, when they demanded, that his control came closest to snapping. 

He ran a hand over his face for a brief moment, rubbing at his pale skin as if to erase a stain. They were his friends and he couldn't deal with them, couldn't give them anything for fear of finally giving them too much. It terrified him when he let himself acknowledge it, knowing what he was capable of, knowing only his walls kept his friends safe from what he throttled inside. He'd tried letting it out in small, safe pieces, in the silence and darkness while the rest of Garden slept. The monsters in the training center were a necessary conduit, a place where the brutality and the blood could be only constructs, only images of his reflected rage. 

But it wasn't enough anymore, not nearly enough of what he needed. What he had to have or go insane with the pressure. 

And that bleak understanding left him here, alone in the clear air, trying to gather enough cold silence to get through the rest of what promised to be a brutal day. 

Damn it, he was stronger than this. He'd hold on until the pills finally gave him enough relief or until he could figure out another solution. He'd survived a damn war; he'd survive this as well. 

It was the sound of the lift behind him broke him out of his circling thoughts. Involuntarily he tensed but refused to turn around. There was no one stationed in the pilot's area, which meant somebody with bridge clearance had finally tracked him down. He didn't move away from the edge; didn't acknowledge the footsteps behind him either until a long body leaned next to him, also contemplating the view below. 

From his peripheral vision he saw a twist of amber-red hair and the ever-present black hat. Irvine then. Squall was faintly surprised; he'd assumed that it would be Quistis who'd have persisted the longest. Instructor Trepe was nothing if not focused in her quest to be everything to everyone. Irvine didn't say anything right away, just settled himself next to Squall with a small sigh. The two men shared the space quietly enough, although Squall felt his gut knotting a little, waiting for Irvine to haul him back to his neglected duties. 

"Nice view y'got here," Irvine finally commented. Squall shot him a look out of the corner of his eye and saw the cowboy looking down, one hand reaching absently to resettle his hat to a new angle. His expression, the profile that Squall could see at least, was a little distracted, a little remote. The transplanted Galbadian had dressed very casually for the Festival, in low cut jeans that hugged his hips and upper thighs but flared at the bottom to accommodate heavy boots. A black tank top and the hat he never left behind completed the outfit. It was very non-regulation even though technically the Garden didn't have a dress code. It was jarring, that relaxed clothing that spoke only of comfort and pleasure without any consideration for protection. The trademark cowboy hat was the only thing that remained of his working outfit and it left Squall with a strange feeling of disorientation. 

During those frantic weeks he'd just gotten so damned used to having the sniper always just a step behind him, with his rifle slung casually over his shoulder and the sound of his boots in almost perfect time to Squall's own. He didn't even have to close his eyes to feel it prickle over his skin again, the dusky scent of Irvine that was always faintly overlaid with gunpowder and metal bringing back unwanted, flickering feelings. It would only take Zell at his other side to make it complete, and Squall could feel a shudder building deep inside like presentiment. 

They were his lodestones after all, his bloody talismans of war. For a time they had fought at his side like angels of fire and lightning, until the end when it had all shattered apart and he... had shattered with it. For a brief moment, the heated taste of copper filled his mouth and he swallowed convulsively. He struggled to keep the raw feelings from his face, emotions that he refused to face beginning to surge inside, moving relentlessly under the veneer of ice. 

___________________________________________________ 

Irvine leaned his forearms on the railing, the soft denim rubbing sensually over his legs as he stretched his body, pretending to watch the Festival below. In reality he was watching Squall out of his peripheral vision, studying his chosen target. The morning was warm and getting warmer but the Commander remained huddled in his jacket, the collar ruffling slightly in the breeze to tangle in his hair. It was a study of contrasting softness, the white wolf fur against the ragged spikes of chestnut and cinnamon. A bar of sunlight lit a brief corona of gold, making the cold face all the more startling against that warmth. Right now the Commander seemed to be staring at the people below, a mixture of irritation and annoyance ghosting over his features every now and again. 

Well, perhaps Squall wasn't precisely huddling. He was leaning easily enough over his own portion of rail, hands braced against the edge, but there was the definite feeling that the jacket was more for emotional warmth than physical. The face was familiar enough, indifferent and closed but Irvine wasn't fooled, and he doubted the others would have been either. They'd been through hell with this man and had battled their way through to the other side of that insanity; Irvine wasn't mislead by the impassive expression. Trouble was, knowing that Squall was slowly drowning in his own darkness and doing something about it were two very different things. 

So far, the Commander hadn't even acknowledged his presence, not by so much as a look or the twitch of one beautifully arched eyebrow. The ice was almost palpable, so thick and impervious that Irvine felt a touch of despair and an aching feeling centered on his heart. He thought suddenly of Seifer with his arrogant attitude and cocksure smile, Seifer who never seemed to suffer from the irresolution that always plagued Irvine. He found himself thinking that the Knight would have immediately jumped into this conversation, demanding by his mere presence that Squall respond to him with a blithe disregard for probable consequences. 

Hell, Seifer would probably welcome the chance to play around with the chance of serious injury. The two hadn't traded matching scars by playing cards after all. The arrogant blonde never did anything by half measures, that was for damned sure. 

Irvine felt a little hollow with that. At the very least Seifer wouldn't still be standing here, figurative hat in hands, trying to figure out how to keep a friend's head above the dark waters. Say that for the man - when he made a decision, he never wavered from it or backed out when the going got rough. As hard as that had made it for the rest of them. 

He swallowed that feeling of betrayal with the ease of long practise. Seifer never explained, not even when his friends suffered at his hands. Or perhaps especially that his friends had suffered. And it was the one at his side who had bled the most. 

"Sure's a long way down," he offered tentatively, staring but not really seeing the crowds below. "Betcha it was Cid's favorite spot. Bring his rivals here, an' push 'em over th' edge." The cowboy leaned out a little further as if inspecting the drop and was rewarded when Squall turned his head slightly to look at him. "Hit them fountains below, sink outta sight for sure. Easy as shooting 'calons in a barrel." He brushed a thumb thoughtfully over his lips, as if judging the idea. "Gotta remember this spot, case I ever get enemies needin' quiet disposal." 

A small noise escaped Squall, hardly more than a breath of wind but still a comment in return. The Commander had turned away again so that Irvine could only see a sliver of pale skin, but there was no doubt in Irvine's mind that he was at least listening. Then, surprisingly, Squall put the comment into words. 

"You don't have enemies, Kinneas." 

The tone had been quiet but there was a flat note of accusation. The cowboy felt a brief flash of startlement at the callous remark and he stared outright at Squall's profile, not sure he'd heard right. The Commander continued to ignore him, letting the bald remark stand without alleviation. The surprise settled on his heart and flared into an ember of anger. 

Damn the man for being an insensitive bastard. Irvine was the absolute best at what he did, which meant the SeeD Commander assigned him personally to the contracts that Garden accepted. Squall should damn well know what being a sniper meant from a purely logistical standpoint. Hire person A to assassinate person B at the request of person C. Simple, straightforward and so damn cold blooded that Irvine sometimes wondered which part of himself was missing. It was a question he really tried not to ask himself too often, and the anger flared a little brighter as he glared at Squall, eyes narrowed and challenging. 

"Oh, I got enemies," he breathed in a deadly calm voice, touching the rim of his hat with the tips of his fingers in a habitual gesture, "but they're usually called 'loved ones'. Personally, I'm a real likeable guy." 

His voice had an edge sharp enough to draw blood. It earned him a startled look from Squall and it was almost worth it to see the shutters come up for a moment, to have Squall actually see him instead of just react to him. Too bad he couldn't appreciate it, turning back to the view as he tried to swallow the sudden, acid feeling. 

It took a moment but he regained a measure of calm, enough at least that his voice was almost normal as he tried grimly to continue the conversation. 

"Ok, how 'bout Selphie's enemies then? Or anyone else needin' quiet removal." 

Squall's eyes remained on him. He refused to turn, to see if those grey stormclouds had cracked open at all, to let the human bleed through. To see that Squall had been jolted out of himself enough to notice his pain would be bad enough. To turn and see only rigid ice would probably make him do something he'd regret later. He amended the thought; not probably, it would definitely be something he'd regret later. He ducked his head, letting the hat hide his eyes. Hair too short to tie back fell forward to give him at least partial cover while he tried to push his anger back into its accustomed box. 

Squall must have decided against noticing the sharpness of Irvine's reaction. When he replied his tone was dry and matter of fact, without the tinge of anger that had bordered it before. 

"Wouldn't be quiet Kinneas. Long way down, they'd be sure to scream." 

Irvine forced a small smile to his lips, refusing to let Squall's serious lack of social skills interfere with this actual conversation. This was the first time in weeks Squall had spoken to him about anything that wasn't Garden or mission related and it was too precious an opportunity to waste on anger. He let humor trickle into his voice, using every vocal trick he knew to try and keep Squall interested and talking. His smoky voice wasn't far from a deep growl, and he deliberately slowed and thickened his accent to make it harder to understand. 

"Not to mention disposin' of Selphie's enemies would mean losin' half the teachin' staff. Then I'd have ta throw myself over th' edge." He glanced up quickly at Squall, letting his eyes twinkle a little with amusement as if inviting the Commander to share the joke. "I know I could stay quiet on th' way down, but Zell'd scream blue murder f'sure." 

Irvine prided himself on his seduction techniques; this really wasn't so different although the goal was to keep Squall's attention focused outward, not to lure the man to bed. The familiar whisper of his libido piped up to ask wistfully if they couldn't change the plan. It was what Irvine did best after all, with the possible exception of assassination. After all, nothing like a little rough and tumble to solve a multitude of problems. 

Regretfully, the cowboy took that voice and stuffed it into the same box as his anger and sat on it - firmly. Now really wasn't the time to let his illicit fantasies of the Commander run around like unruly children. 

"Still going through with the revenge plan then?" Squall asked, obviously clueless as to Irvine's sudden turn of mind. Curiosity was moving through those blank eyes. Irvine grinned internally when the Commander responded unconsciously to the verbal cues, turning to half face Irvine with one leather clad hip coming to rest comfortably against the steel edge. It physically brought him a little closer, showing he was focusing on the cowboy instead of ignoring him. Irvine stretched his spine a little and rolled his shoulders before replying, as if working out kinks. Squall continued to watch impassively, but didn't make any moves to turn away as Irvine obviously relaxed in his presence. 

_Got you_, the cowboy thought to himself but didn't let triumph touch his face or voice. Instead he nodded grumpily, hair swinging absently to bump along his jaw as he resettled his hat again as if out of habit. 

"She's gonna kill me, she finds out I'm involved. Kill me twice if she finds out I'm coordinatin' the damn thing. Hell if she don't deserve it though, w' what she put us through." Eyes of turquoise jade gazed up innocently into wary grey ones as Irvine shifted his legs, incidentally moving a little closer until he could feel the heat of Squall's body touching his side. The Commander's expression was actually wavering, as if the ice was having a hard time holding up to Irvine's subtle assault. 

"C'mon Leonhart, help me out. I'm a good boy, an' one of the best SeeD's you got. You can't afford t' lose me to unnat'ral forces, now can you?" He stared up at Squall, a grin playing over his lips as he tried to draw the man out. "You're SeeD Commander. You can give me a mission that's far, far away from here. It'll keep me alive 'til Hurricane Selphie blows over." His tone was light and teasing and he gave his best flashing grin, determinedly keeping anything other than purely innocent charm locked down and deeply buried. 

For a second, Irvine knew he had him. Squall damned near smiled, eyebrows twitching in reaction. Irvine's grin began to widen in response, staring up into his friend's face. But then he faltered, for the unmistakable ice suddenly crystallized in those gray eyes and stiffened the negligently leaning body. It was damned unnerving how fast the Commander threw his barriers back up, and Irvine cursed whatever had made the man close up again. An instantaneous catalogue of the last couple of seconds offered no clues to the sudden reversion. Squall was no longer relaxing in Irvine's presence, had in fact drawn slightly back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Sorry Kinneas," the man finally managed to stutter out, but there wasn't any real emotion in the voice. "Going to have to take your lumps with Zell." 

Irvine's assessing gaze lingered on Squall's face as he wondered what the hell he'd said exactly to set the Commander off. He hadn't been asking for time off or anything, even Squall had to have known he was joking. Irvine felt a perplexed frown settle on his face as he wondered what had suddenly changed, but nothing obvious sprung out at him. For a long moment they continued to stare at each other, but then the younger man abruptly turned away, propping up a booted foot on the lower rail. Squall leaned away, obviously giving himself space. Something in what Irvine had said or done had set the man off - all he had to do was figure out what and why. 

As if he could feel the cowboy's confused gaze Squall tucked his head down slightly, letting that gorgeous hair shield his face. The eyes had flashed something incomprehensible before they'd been shuttered away, but Irvine had no idea what he'd seen. The Commander's posture fairly screamed that Irvine's presence was no longer welcome, that the conversational tidbits were now over. Rising frustration and worry resurrected his anger, and this time he didn't try to tamp it down. He'd tried small conversation, and it hadn't worked. Time for a different approach. 

The cowboy straightened to his full height, a half a head taller than the Commander and cocked a slim hip against the balustrade. The movement didn't seem to signify for Squall continued to ignore him, effectively cutting him off over a tight leather-clad shoulder. Irvine hesitated, staring grimly out from under his hat. Damned if he was going to let the other wall him out like this. Damn it, he was _owed_. Maybe Rinoa couldn't handle it, maybe she'd left because she couldn't understand being frozen out, but he wasn't so easily dismissed. 

Maybe he was made of sterner stuff, or maybe he had just never damn well figured out when to take no for an answer. But whatever it was, he'd come up here with every intention of finding out what the hell was wrong. Damned if he was going to get shut out so quickly. 

Squall was staring out across Balamb like he'd already forgotten Irvine was there, but his body was so tense that waves of it were practically rising into the air. The cowboy seriously doubted Squall was seeing much of anything but his own inner landscape. He paused a moment longer because this was Squall, and you didn't touch the Commander unless you were willing to risk a body part to frostbite. Then with an internal shrug he laid a firm hand on the Commander's shoulder. He was intending a rough shake to pull the man out of the no doubt fascinating conversation inside that messed up head. 

He wasn't even remotely prepared for the reaction. 

Squall's hand flashed up as he whirled, angrily hitting Irvine's casual reach away. But more than the overreaction, it was the look in Squall's eyes that sent a startled shaft of ice through his belly. The Commander's face was still impassive, locked and cold but that hardly signified. Motes of anger danced on the surface of that storm gray, but it was the burning silver rising behind that smoky color that sent a wave of prickling cold over his skin. 

Silver eyes. 

Memory rose, of something almost desperately forgotten. His body reacted before he could, sleek muscles sliding under skin as he half turned to present a smaller target, lean legs tensing to spring away. He knew, dearest gods he knew what that silver could promise. 

Squall was a breath away from violence; it shivered over skin like storm warning but Irvine knew better than to back down, knew better than to run. He waited, the world forgotten as his focus narrowed to clarity, body humming to itself with his own lethal potential. It flickered in his eyes, clear warning that he also was not to be trifled with. 

They stood locked for a frozen moment as Irvine's thoughts flickered back and forth like confused swallows. This was Squall, damn it, even if achingly familiar insanity lurked behind eyes wide and burning. This was his friend, his chosen leader, the one who had personally saved his ass so many times he didn't bother counting the coup anymore. But he didn't relax from his fighting stance. Friendship and trust meant nothing against that gleaming molten edge, the color of war. 

Perfectly still, he waited for Squall to make the first move, wanting every advantage he could get. His fingers twitched unconsciously as the ingrained reach for his absent rifle asserted itself. 

"Temper, Commander," he finally warned neutrally. The Commander's expression faltered slightly, a brief terror flitting across the fine-grained smoothness of his face. That flash was all he got as the walls slammed down again with an nearly audible sound. Then it was just the Commander again, staring at him with a cold, almost hostile expression. For a moment, Irvine wondered crazily if he'd actually seen what he'd thought he'd seen. But he couldn't have mistaken that heavy silver edge, his body was still tense with reaction to it. He waited, not sure what the hell was going on. His confusion must have communicated itself to the other man. 

"Back off, Kinneas," Squall growled, voice rough and heavy. "Leave me the hell alone." 

The Commander seemed to have used up his small store of words for he didn't elaborate any further, but the implicit threat hung in the air between them. Irvine found he was already shaking his head, a sardonic grin beginning to touch his lips. He'd cracked the mask, perhaps in a way he hadn't expected, but he wasn't going to let the opportunity slide. Now was the time to push, to find out what lay beneath that startling, half-glimpsed transformation. 

"Oh no, Leonhart, I'm not leavin' this alone," he purred. "You're so wired you're almost sparkin'. You don't put me off that easy." 

He cocked a slow head, letting his eyes pin Squall's from under the framing blackness of his hat. A mirthless grin continued to touch his lips as he deliberately leaned forward to close the distance. Tension rose to near unbearable levels but Irvine refused to back down, intentionally pushing boundaries. 

For a moment, Squall's eyes flickered down and away. Then they rose to stare angrily back, no longer retreating as the cowboy crowded him. 

"I said back off, Kinneas," the Commander warned, "this is none of your damn business." 

He continued to ignore that implacable voice, even as he ignored the tensing body and the clenching hands. He kept his attention locked on those eyes, watching the hard gray for that betraying flicker of berserker rage. And was it colder all of a sudden? 

"Oh, I'm makin' it my business _Commander_," the cowboy said with steel in his warm voice. "You've been walking th' edge for weeks now." He wanted to take Squall by the shoulders and shake the man, lash out against that streak of stubborn, destructive self-reliance. "What? Think we wouldn't notice? Think your friends that blind?" Panic flickered over Squall's face for a moment, but it was such a fleeting expression he almost missed it. 

"No," he breathed, his breath almost caressing Squall's face as he leaned closer still, "the _Commander_ doesn't give a shit about his friends, the _Commander's_ too damn stubborn to admit he's got a problem." Irvine could feel his own helpless, frustrated anger come boiling out, making his words hard and bitter. He wasn't even sure if Squall was hearing him, not sure if anything was getting past that unreasoning refusal that glared back at him. 

"Give it up Leonhart, damned if I'm goin' to let you get away with this. You have friends, and they care about you, although I'm damned if I can figure out why when all you do is push us away." He leaned closer still, putting his face dangerously close to Squall's, so close that his breath did touch that pale skin, ghosting over lips tight and drawn. "You don't scare me and you can't freeze me out. I know you too damned well," he whispered against Squall's skin. 

He stared into those hard eyes, seeing something flash for a moment in those blazing depths. He pressed a little more, ruthlessly chasing down that look of sudden vulnerability. 

"I ain't Rinoa to turn tail and run when things don't go my way." He stopped, arrested by the thought. He wondered if that was what he'd seen, cursing Rinoa viciously in a corner of his mind for what her abandonment might have done to his friend. Squall still didn't reply but didn't move away either, even though the cowboy was very much inside his personal space, face only inches from Squall's own. "I don't break that easy," he concluded desperately, almost losing track of what he was trying to say. 

"I can break you," Squall said unexpectedly, in a whisper of such soft darkness that Irvine wasn't sure for a moment he'd actually heard the words. Then the sense of it caught him by surprise. He couldn't have hidden his startled reaction even if he had wanted to. 

And as if Squall had only just realized what he'd said, panic rose in those eyes, choking and tight. Irvine reached up and impulsively touched Squall's cheek. His hand was rough with concern even as it forestalled the Commander's abortive attempt to move away. That pale skin was shockingly hot, almost burning to the touch and Irvine stared almost helplessly into the eyes so close to his own. 

He could finally see it, could see something breaking apart and he instinctively moved closer, incoherently wanting to ease the anguish he could see so very clearly. 

He was unprepared for the hand that shoved him brutally away. He stumbled backwards gracelessly, nearly sliding to one knee with the force of the blow. He looked up in indignant surprise just in time to see Squall staring at him with dismay, but that expression was already fading into the more familiar anger even as Squall drew himself up into an aggressive posture. 

"What the hell's gotten into you, Kinneas?" Squall spat in a voice gone cold as a winter wind. "Leave me the hell alone! Whatever my problems are, they're not yours!" But something trembled below the surface if one was listening. Irvine wasn't even remotely fooled by the surface camouflage. 

"The hell they aren't my problems," Irvine growled back, slowly standing as he glared at the Commander. The angry push had moved them apart again and Irvine was nearly vibrating with resentment. Damn it, that was the second time Squall had caught him off guard and it was really starting to piss him off. "You keep pushin' people around like that, you're going to start comin' across as an antisocial bastard. You're my damned Commander, an' worse, you're my damned _friend_. You think I can stand by an' watch you die by inches? You think I can do that? Fuck you Leonhart!' 

Squall didn't bother replying, just glowered at him out of eyes that resembled ice chips. Whatever vulnerability he thought he'd seen in them before was lost, buried and locked behind the impenetrable walls again. The cowboy grinned savagely and without humor at Squall's attempt to cut him off again. He deliberately struck an insolent pose, hooking casual thumbs into his front pockets even as he straightened to his full height to glare down at the shorter man. 

"You've been treatin' me like shit," he growled, "ignorin' me, _shutting me out_ and damned if I'm going to put up with it any longer. I'm not your damned girlfriend that you can run off when things get bad, nor am I willin' to put up with your crap indefinitely." He narrowed his eyes as he stared at Squall, watching for the reaction. It could be seen in the flaring nostrils and darkening eyes but otherwise the Commander remained calm, his eyes still gray. "Talk to me Squall, or I'm goin' to kick your ass into next week," Irvine promised in voice tight with his own barely contained ire. 

The Commander's head snapped back at that and his eyes gleamed sudden fire. 

"You can try, Kinneas," Squall finally replied, a dark invitation weaving through his words. 

Irvine checked for a moment, staring in disbelief at the other man. Squall stared back defiantly, a definite challenge in those eyes. Irvine felt the idea settle into his hindbrain without even bothering to check in with his reason. A different smile grew on his face, hot and male. 

"So you wanna play it that way?" he said cryptically after a moment. "Alright, you cold little bastard, let's see what you got." 

With no more warning that that, Irvine lunged forward to grab for the front of Squall's jacket. But the Commander wasn't there anymore, already twisting away so that the edge of the cowboy's reach nearly brushed his shoulder. Squall spun around but Irvine had already pulled up short, out of easy range for the shorter man. 

"Is this easier for you, _Commander_?" Irvine breathed angrily as he began to circle, looking for an opening. His reason was yammering something terrified about survival in his ear, but he ignored it in favor of his own rising anger and frustration. Squall was reacting, damn it, that was what he wanted, right? Seifer did this all the time, and it always seemed to work for him. 

Then Irvine thought no more about it for Squall's eyes were still locked on his, dark and angry. 

"You'd rather fight than talk to me, wouldn't you?" he growled as he continued to stalk forward, a predator's unknowing grace in his long stride. "You'd rather fight than let me get close to you. Rather fight than do _anythin'_ that might let some damned human emotion bleed out of that ice." 

Irvine didn't wait for a reply but lunged again, this time managing to clip Squall's shoulder as the other man dodged away. The leather jacket absorbed most of the damage. The cowboy spun on one heel and reached out with cruel fingers, managing to get a grip on the fur collar to yank savagely to the side. 

Squall retaliated as he was dragged closer with a punishing elbow to the ribs. Irvine grunted with pain but didn't let himself get distracted, struggling to lock Squall's right arm against his side. The cowboy almost had it, but Squall came up on his toes and then spun down and away, wrenching himself out of the confining jacket before Irvine could consolidate the restraint hold. The sniper was left with the dangling leather as Squall whirled to face him again from a few steps away. 

Rage. 

No pretense now. It had finally broken through that cold skin to bleed raw and unmistakable against that pale color. No sane gray left in those eyes at all, only the silver insanity that had suddenly and simply slipped its bonds of control. Oddly, there was no fear in him now to face those terrible eyes, only a savage expectation and a burning sensation in his blood. Perhaps this was the way to reach Squall, the only way to get past the ice to the fire that lay beneath. 

With the feeling of something inevitable falling into place, he _knew_. This was what Seifer felt, what Seifer _saw_ every time he danced with the Commander. Irvine laughed to himself, low and mocking as he finally, irrevocably understood why Seifer always came back. Such an intense sweetness to see Squall stripped down and laid bare without his defense of cold indifference, to see raw emotion moving over that heartbreakingly beautiful face and all of it focused on _him_. It was suddenly hard to think of anything else, to remember why he'd wanted to confront the Commander at all. 

Slowly, with something that was almost tenderness, Irvine draped the jacket over the nearest object before advancing once again, one lazy step at a time. 

"You don't get away that easy, Leonhart," he purred in a smooth voice, dark and suddenly sensual. "You want to play this particular game with me, you'll damn well play until I've had satisfaction." 

This time it was Squall who surged forward, white fury on his face. Irvine was forced to defend himself from the insanity that they had all helped create. Back and forth they moved across the slick deck, unseen by all but the gliding birds high above. The Galbadian was taller but Squall was faster, and bodies flashed and wove in deadly patterns as they struck and moved as if in a choreographed desire. Irvine lost himself in it, reveled in it, for they were meant for this, carved by war into beautiful instruments of violence. 

When Squall whirled, nearly in the circle of his arms and slammed a fist of steel into his ribs, he hardly felt the pain, so deep he'd fallen into the trance. The cowboy recoiled reflexively with the blow, absorbing the kinetic effort as he felt bones break. But this time Squall was too damn close to dodge away. One hand thrust in that silky hair, fingers curling as he yanked Squall's head savagely back to expose the clean line of throat. 

And suddenly Irvine lost his focus, staring blindly at the pulsing, compelling tempo that beat so erratically close. It was only a moment but it was enough - Squall tore himself away and Irvine just recovered himself in time to duck a vicious blow aimed at his temple. He avoided injury but his hat did not suffer a similar reprieve, sailing off his head to land in a crumpled heap halfway across the deck. 

Irvine followed its flight with shocked gaze, before looking back up again at Squall. The Commander had frozen too, as if the destruction of the hat was something terrible and heart breaking. The panicked expression was back again in his eyes as his gaze flickered to the hat and then back again to Irvine. The Commander stared mutely as he slowly rose from the crouch he'd fallen into. 

"You're gonna pay for that," Irvine promised with deadly sweetness. "That was my best hat. My _favorite_ hat. Ultimecia herself couldn't take it off my head and you damn well wrecked it." 

The Galbadian loomed over Squall as he reached with savage fingers to slip his hair tie off. Amber hair snaked down to trail fire past his shoulders, bright against the contrast of black fabric and golden skin. Irvine shook his head with feral grace to free the last entangled strands, his eyes blazing with an emotion that had no more definition than Squall's. 

"You're so goin' to pay. Dance with me, Leonhart," Irvine challenged, spreading his arms wide as if in invitation. 

With a stunned look, Squall flinched back at the words even as his body curved in a rigid posture. Brutal recognition raced over his face, his eyes startling wide. 

Bewildered, Irvine saw Squall's pupils contracted only to expand in a rush, drowning his eyes in blackness. Skin that had been flushed with anger now paled to white wax, shocky with panic. Irvine continued to hesitate at the abrupt change, brows drawing together in a perplexed frown. Squall looked like he'd just seen a ghost. It was so damned odd that Irvine faltered as well, hands lowering slightly. 

"What th' hell? Squall?" he asked, cocking his head sideways as he started to straighten. 

The Commander remained frozen, obviously lost somewhere in his head although his black gaze was still riveted on the cowboy. Irvine still paused, uncertain of what to do. Anger and adrenalin wavered for long moments before finally crashing, leaving him feeling hollow and faintly cold. 

"Squall, what's wrong?" he asked more urgently. The Commander didn't respond, staring at Irvine with eyes that showed only rims of silver, body tense and trembling. Really concerned now, Irvine took a step forward. 

"Dance with you?" Squall said suddenly, breath rushing out between his teeth. Anger flickered hotly in his voice as he came out of his locked stance, surging up to stand aggressively. Irvine checked his forward motion in belated defense. Squall flexed his fingers as if missing his gunblade. "Why should I? You always leave me," he replied in a voice that was raw and tight. The Commander continued to stare up at the Galbadian with an expression that defied understanding. Irvine at least had no hope of deciphering the crazed reaction, and he knew it. 

The cowboy cursed himself in angry exasperation for being thrown out of his depth again. Once again Squall had deflected him from target. This was getting damned annoying and confusing as hell. What was going on? The Commander seemed to have been dropped into some internal nightmare and he was dragging Irvine along for the ride across the demented landscape. It was as unnerving as hell. 

Squall shivered under Irvine's confused gaze, eyes snapping back into focus. Without warning he began to stalk forward, muscles sliding with liquid ease under that pale skin. Irvine fell back one step, then two as their positions were weirdly reversed. Now it was Squall who pushed him. 

"Squall, its me," Irvine said urgently, not really sure what the Commander was seeing, not even sure he really wanted to know. He fell back another desperate step; trying to remember what tangent Squall had gone off on. "What th' hell you talkin' about? I'm right here, and I ain't leavin'." 

Squall didn't hesitate at all, continuing to glide forward with that terrible anger in his eyes, so different from just a moment ago although Irvine couldn't say exactly what had changed. This almost wasn't Squall anymore, strange as that sounded. Irvine continued to circle away, casting a look over his shoulder so he wouldn't get hung up on the railing. 

"You always leave," the Commander hissed in a hard voice, following him. 

"_Never_. Never leave you." Terror stuck the words to the back of his throat as he realized how much of himself he'd exposed in those words. He tried to cover it with a lopsided smile, bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. "We're buddies, remember?" His smile wavered for a moment before he fixed it firmly in place, dredging up something approaching his usual carefree attitude to fill in the crumbling corners. 

Something in his voice must have reached through the odd reaction, for Squall slowed and then stopped, a line creasing between his eyes. The Commander stared at him and Irvine cursed under his breath, trying to figure out what to say next, before Squall did another one of those crazy internal shifts and swung back into rage again. 

"Irvine." 

It was barely a question, whispered. Irvine stopped retreating; still holding himself ready in case he'd misjudged the situation again. To his relief though, the strangeness in Squall's eyes was definitely receding, submerging into the hard gray that was Squall's normal expression. The cowboy gave a small sigh and dared to straighten up a little - damned if the Commander wasn't almost starting to look like himself again. 

"Yeah, it's me," the cowboy replied encouragingly. "You back with me, Leonhart?" he asked hopefully. 

"Never left you," Squall replied cryptically, his voice damned nearly normal as he also straightened. Only the frown between his eyes and the faintest quaver betrayed anything different. 

"Well, maybe you never left," Irvine replied, lowering his hands again as it looked like the fighting was over, "but I sure had no idea where the hell you were." 

A spasm of pain passed over Squall's face, but surprisingly it wasn't shuttered away or hidden. 

"You..." Squall finally stuttered out, even as he turned to present a clean profile to the cowboy. The Commander stepped back as if to give them both room, running absent hands over his upper arms momentarily as if cold. "You said… it reminded me of something." 

"Do I dare ask what?" Irvine asked, deciding to push the question. Squall hesitated and Irvine could see the excuses running through his eyes, even across the distance that separated them. 

"Don't," he said tiredly, putting up a hand to forestall the lie. Squall looked at him in surprise and Irvine gave him a crooked smile, trying not to let his sudden hurt show. "Jus' - don't. Guess I don't feel like playin' twenty questions right now. Forget I asked." 

Squall studied him with a distant expression, and Irvine felt that twisting pain go right through his heart like a knife. Damn it. Damn it to fucking hell. Leonhart might be able to turn his emotions on and off like a tap, but Irvine felt like he'd been rubbed raw in a more than few places. That look of suddenly cool indifference was more than he could take. 

He turned away, incoherently wondering where the hell his hat had ended up. After a moment or two, he spotted the damn thing crumpled in a heap. Determinedly not looking back, he strode over and picked it up with negligent fingers. Stroking the soft fabric absently he began to reshape it, working out the damage. His eyes were still dry, but he found himself cursing angrily under his breath. 

Damn it, it didn't matter if Squall had retreated behind his barriers again and locked him out - it certainly wasn't the first time, and sure as hell wouldn't be the last. Zell had even told him he was wasting his goddamn time. 

"Irvine." 

This time his name was impatient, with an edge of command. The cowboy looked up to see Squall run a hand over his face and through his hair, the fingers tangling briefly in that warm darkness. Squall sighed heavily, as if to himself, but then moved forward until he stood in front of Irvine. The Commander looked up into his eyes from a few steps away, gaze tight but with something indecipherable lurking just behind that expression. 

"I remembered," he said flatly, as Irvine almost forgot to breathe, "a nightmare." 

He was silent for so long that Irvine began to wonder if he was going to say anything else. When he finally did continue, the words were precise enough that Irvine knew just how much it must have cost the Commander to say them. 

"I was...alone. In darkness, so cold... I was frozen with it. But then someone promised me... promised me warmth if I could only find it, find him. And I looked," he said with a fragment of ragged emotion that reflected imperfectly in his eyes, "and I _hated_ that voice... because I knew it lied." 

The sense of the dawned on him and Irvine's heart clenched once, abruptly. The seconds ticked by and Irvine knew that Squall couldn't force any more words out, that the Commander had probably exceeded his personal limits with that admission of private terror. 

"I'm here," he said urgently, concern and worry rising in his voice. "I ain't leavin' you." His voice held an anguished note and he suddenly didn't care what it sounded like, needing to say something to answer those eyes of clouded gray. "I'm _here_," he repeated as he took an abrupt step forward, ducking his head to look more deeply into those churning stormclouds. Without even thinking about it, he dropped his forgotten hat to the deck and raised his hands to grip Squall's shoulders, fingers biting down into heated flesh. This time, the Commander tolerated the touch, in fact seemed to barely register it. 

"I know," Squall finally sighed, but his eyes never wavered. "You're my damned nanny, aren't you Kinneas?" 

"No one better," the cowboy agreed intensely. 

Unexpectedly, Squall reached out with one hand to place his palm against Irvine's chest. The Commander dropped his eyes to stare at his hand and the cowboy could feel his heart beating crazily against that pressure. Irvine tensed but remained steady, not sure what Squall was up to. As a rule, Squall never intentionally touched anybody unless it was to heal wounds or assess damage or any of a half a dozen other reasons, none of which had anything to do with human comfort. It felt strange, that touch and something near his heart stuttered to painful life. 

"Have I ever told you," Squall said in a voice that echoed a growling darkness, "how much I hate you?" 

Lambent eyes flashed up to pin Irvine where the cowboy stood in sudden, transfixed shock. Irvine could feel his eyes widening in startlement even as the Commander flexed his fingers, digging into his skin as if to reach for his heart. 

"When She fell," the Commander said in a voice gone cold and remote as an arctic wind, "you should have let me fall with Her. I _wanted_... to fall with Her." 

Irvine could only stand rigid, his mind a sudden, numbing white. The words were cold, colder than the ice the Commander was famous for but it was the broken confession in his eyes that made Irvine flinch in reaction. Maybe... maybe a part of him had always known that Squall had not wanted to survive, for even now there was no surprise in him. But to hear the words made him feel heart-sick, a wounded hurt like an animal caught in a trap. 

"There's nothing left anymore," the Commander continued to muse in an eerily conversational tone, as if it was commonplace to speak to Irvine this way. "Nothing but the pain and the blood. Sacrificed it all, everything I had left, at the last. Didn't dare do anything else." His eyes, his voice, everything had gone remote and distant, nothing but the words themselves to show the darkness that Irvine was slowly realizing went much farther down than he had ever wanted to believe. 

And yet," Squall continued in that strangely calm voice, "even in nightmares....you are my amulets of war, you and Zell. The sacrifice was for you." A smile that contained nothing of humor in it played over the Commander's smooth lips. "Rinoa was the reason it started, but in the end it was for you. To keep you both safe. To keep Her... from taking anyone else." 

He stared down at Squall, only now seeing the truth in those burning gray eyes. No rage to mask it now, the berserker madness they had demanded of him for it had been brutally necessary to survival. What he saw twisting in those depths pierced through the carefully crafted layers like light, rising to the surface to rest cold and clear on those grey seas. 

It wasn't romantic or beautiful or anything like the fantasy that he'd secretly hoarded through all those long weeks of pain and exhaustion. It came from those depths, dark and grudging and as bitter as dregs, but no less than true. Or perhaps truer for the darkness that stained it, that even through the wreckage it still remained. 

The hand still pressed hard against his heart, fingers spread as if to cover as much of his skin as possible. His own hands refused to remain steady as he took those fingers into his own, curling them between his palms as if they were as fragile as butterflies. Even as he brought them to his lips, his eyes closed with the sharp, overwhelming emotion. 

It was too much, to see that flaring light in Squall's eyes, and see it edged by burning silver rage. 

Squall stood there without protest even when Irvine brushed his lips over the knuckles, barely grazing that warm skin with its calluses and scars. The warm breeze ruffled them both, lifting hair of both fire and cinnamon to dance in the brief wind, the only motion between them for long moments. 

"Damn you to hell," Irvine whispered. "Don't you _dare_ say it was for me. I remember," he choked, "so much blood I was drownin' in it, never knew you could lose so much and still stand... still fight. And I was damned near to burstin' with every healing magic I knew, every Cure I could lay my hands on because I knew... I knew you'd need it. I'd hoarded 'em, y'know. Been saving 'em for weeks, knowin' that we were close." He had to stop, for anguish was ripping through his words and closing his throat. 

"And Zell," the Commander continued gently, "Zell had junctioned enough life magic to raise an army of dead." That dark voice was rock steady, uninflected as if he spoke only of trivial things. "And we needed it, didn't we? I was the army; I couldn't be allowed to fall." 

Squall's hand spasmed in Irvine's, giving lie to the calm words. Irvine's gaze finally stuttered open, the image of Squall's face forming and shattering through the haze. 

"And between us we broke you open, didn't we?" Irvine said in his sudden, bitter understanding. "You're still fightin', aren't you? Me an' Zell, we healed your body, but you're still bleedin'." 

Squall didn't say anything in reply, his silence assent enough to Irvine. 

"Damn it Squall," he said viciously, hopelessly. "Damn it to fuckin' hell! You were suppose' to live happily ever after, that was what Rinoa was for. You weren't supposed to keep on dyin'. I didn't save your ass then to lose you now to a war we fuckin' won!" 

"Couldn't be helped, Kinneas," Squall breathed out softly, his hand still oddly solid and warm in Irvine's. "You were there. You know what had to be done." 

Irvine could only shake his head in mute denial. He refused to believe it, didn't want to believe it. How could he have been so goddamn _blind_? 

"It was necessary," the Commander said simply, answering the unspoken question, "and I was the strongest." He stared up at Irvine with a challenging expression. "Should I let this happen to Zell? To Quistis? _Selphie_?" Squall's words were hard and impatient, as if pointing out something Irvine should have already seen. 

"How much death, Irvine? How much before you're dead inside along with the bodies you're stepping over? I couldn't _do_ that to Zell, couldn't have watched... seen him break under it. Refused to watch it break you." 

Honest, raw emotion bled through that voice, staining it with a pain that Irvine could all but see. 

"All of you," the Commander continued, in a voice that struggled for impartiality even as his fingers clutched convulsively at Irvine's, "_feel_ too much. _How much death_? We slaughtered everything that stood against us, destroyed _everything_ that got in our way. It nearly crushed him. Nearly crushed you and you're not the weakest of us." The eyes had gone hard again but Irvine was still lost in that voice of broken darkness, feeling his own memories rising to drown him. "You both deserved so much more than that. It was better... that it was me." 

For a moment, Irvine could all but feel the hot wind blowing over his skin again, the taste of exhaustion and blood and the fighting that went on, day after day, without surcease. The memory of _always_ having his rifle within reach even while he slept, knowing exactly how many shells he had and of what kind. The constant assessment of what he could spare for each enemy, the cool calculation in the middle of heated battle that ripped off healing spells between shots, that allowed him to reload without fumbling, without _thinking_, targeting between the flashing blurs that were Squall and Zell. 

That memory still gave him nightmares, remembering how close they'd fought together, how he could easily have killed either of them with even a second's misjudgement, a moment's distraction. 

But that was the point wasn't it? By the end, he couldn't have missed. He hadn't even thought about targeting over Squall's shoulder, between Zell's fingers, he'd just done it. By the end, he'd been a killing machine. And the same had been true of Zell. 

Of Squall. 

"Let it go," he whispered finally. "We're not ... we made it, damn it. The fightin's over an' we won. _Let it go._" 

"I can't," the Commander returned simply. "I've tried... and I just can't. It's the only thing I can feel anymore," he admitted quietly, with such a flat weariness that Irvine caught his breath on it. 

"Maybe you were the strongest," he started out blindly, needing to say anything to refute the ruin he heard in that voice, "but it didn't save you, did it? _We_ didn't save you. Damn you Leonhart, we're your damn friends! You should have told us what it was doin' to you, turned to us. There had to have been another way!" 

Squall was already shaking his head, rejecting Irvine's impassioned plea. 

"There was no other way. And by the end, there was nothing left to save." The Commander's voice was so leeched of emotion that he might have been speaking of the weather. Irvine flinched at the dead tone, but the eyes still told him the truth, showed him the fracture. "You can't fix this Kinneas, there's just nothing there to patch together. Rinoa tried, and it nearly tore her apart." The eyes darkened at that admission, guilt and grief clear to see. 

"The hell," Irvine choked out in a burning voice, "the hell I'm going to let you drown in this. I ain't damned Rinoa and I don't run! I'm fuckin' here and I ain't losin' you. You feel this?" 

He threaded his fingers through Squall's and gripped so tightly that it forced the Commander to return the pressure or risk injury. 

"This is real. This is you an' me, here and alive in Garden. Don't tell me there's nothin' left," he said wildly, "'cause I don't believe you!" He glared down at the smaller man, daring him to dispute the statement. He kept their gripped hands between them like a pact, a promise. 

For a long moment, Squall did nothing, simply looked back at him out of dead eyes that were so deadly calm that it nearly shook Irvine apart. But finally the pressure on his fingers tightened until they were holding so hard to each other it was bound to leave bruises. 

"This is real," Squall agreed in voice so frozen that it cut Irvine to the core. "You and I, alive in Garden. I can't give you any more than that." 

But the pressure never faltered and Irvine stared down into those eyes that somehow denied the wasteland of the words, seeing still the shadow of rage and terrible love that twined in that depth of color. 

Finally, almost reluctantly, the Commander began to pull away. Those terrible eyes flickered down, heavy lashes lowering to shut Irvine out again. The cowboy refused for a moment, fear crossing his heart that somehow Squall would vanish if he let go. He knew it was irrational, but it took a hard effort to force his grip to yield. He released the fingers reluctantly, licking dry lips without thinking about it. There had to be something he could say, but all his words seemed to have left him, lost in the welter of his anguished empathy. 

When the Commander stepped back, Irvine could all but feel the searing heat of that separation. His eyes stabbed down into Squall's lowered face, trying desperately to find a way to say something, anything to deny the terror that whispered to his heart. 

The Commander raised his gaze, and Irvine swallowed a hard lump in his throat. Those grey eyes had gone blank, cold and growing colder as the Commander began to distance himself, retreating emotionally even as the cowboy watched in helpless anguish. Irvine could see the ice beginning to form, the sheer necessity of those walls agonizingly clear now. Squall couldn't function without that numbing cold, the barriers that kept him strangled inside himself but also that held those fragmented pieces together. 

Long moments passed as they looked at each other, across a chasm of a single step. When Squall finally turned away, Irvine still hadn't found any words, let alone the right words. He wondered crazily if words even existed that could answer what he had seen. He could only watch mutely as his friend turned and walked away, leaving him in his locked silence. 

He began to shake, small tremors that flickered through taut muscles like living creatures. He stared with unknowingly dazed eyes as Squall reached out to take his jacket from the place that Irvine had laid it so many hours ago. The Commander shrugged into the slick leather without breaking stride, letting it cover him like a second, impervious skin. A breath and he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the lift. 

Irvine was alone, a feeling of sick despair coiling in his bones. 

He found that his hands were trembling as he reached up impatiently to scrub at the moisture staining his skin. Squall's pain was worth more than tears, but it seemed that was all he had to offer, useless as they were. He cursed reflexively, impotently, not knowing what else to do. Sweetest gods, he'd wanted to know what was wrong. Now he knew but could do nothing about it. 

He laughed out loud, sharp and dangerous into the empty air. What could he say that would make Squall's pain any less? What words existed that could ease a man's wish to die? 

He stared blindly at the sky, tilting his head back to stare at the blue dazzle until his eyes watered with light. He knew, dear sweet gods, he knew what Squall felt, if only dimly. Could he have stood in the Commander's place and made those decisions, those brutal choices and remained himself? Irvine had the sinking feeling that he knew what that answer would be. 

He'd followed Squall almost blindly by the end, after all. He'd known, he'd _trusted_ the Commander's focused intent. Of all of them, Squall had been the one who'd never hesitated, never once faltered. He'd relied on that, relied on Squall to see them through what needed to be done, no matter what the cost. 

Even if it turned out the cost was his friend's heart and sanity. 

He cursed again in impotent anger, at himself for what he'd allowed to happen by his failure to see, at Squall for hiding what they'd done to him. And for good measure, he cursed Seifer who'd betrayed them. Not once, but twice when he'd just disappeared, left them all to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. 

But at that thought, his head snapped down and he stared with shocked realization at the hard metal wall opposite, jade eyes widening with consternation. 

_Seifer_. 

Seifer was coming. 


	7. soul train

It was only as the train began to pull away from the station that it occurred to him. He was nearly there. He was almost home. 

Home. 

It still seemed so damned unreal, like some kind of daydream he was having with his eyes wide open. Safe in his backwater, he'd half convinced himself that this was something he ought to do. After all, things had changed - _he_ had changed - and when Fujin had said go... he'd said yes. He'd allowed himself to be moved along like some sort of automaton, not really questioning what he was doing. It was like a part of his mind had shut down and refused to think about consequences. 

But now... now it was suddenly _real_. The shuddering of the train, the wash of people talking, the moving buildings outside all conspired to plug him back into this slice of reality. 

The insulating feeling of disconnection that he'd carried with him was receding, anxiety rising inexorably to take its place. It drifted across his skin like fingers of ice, leaving chilled and rigid flesh in its wake. Grimly, he ignored the sensation and his growing feeling of dislocation as best he could, slouching farther into his seat like a sulking child. 

Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. A knowing voice in his mind mocked him for that and he scowled, hard brows pulling together in a fierce expression. He knew that voice. Hated the sound of his own fear rating his actions like some kind of deranged scorecard. 

Of course it was only now, nearly at the end of this journey, that he finally decided to wonder what the hell he was doing. That was so damn typical it wasn't funny. 

Too late now, much too late for second thoughts. He really should have had this conversation with himself a week ago. Hell, even yesterday would have worked. The old and quaint buildings of Timber were slipping away, beginning to unfold with the rolling countryside that surrounded the sleepy town. Short of standing up, strolling casually to the compartment door and throwing himself from the moving train, he was now committed to arriving in Balamb. 

Assuming, of course, that the posse would even let him near the door in the first place. 

He glanced across the aisle involuntarily. His friends spoke in low voices that didn't intrude on his silence, deep in a conversation that carefully didn't demand any of his attention. Raijin was talking in his low, garrulous way, something about his recent fishing trip and the one that got away. Fujin's replies were brief and succinct, hardly more than the occasional interruption in Raijin's basso rumble. Lack of input from Fu wasn't slowing Raijin down any though. Even as he watched, the man's arms came up as if to measure the monster he'd nearly hooked. 

From his angle it was hard to say, but Fu seemed unimpressed. He knew just where she was coming from, having listened to enough to these stories to quote the chapter and verse himself. Raijin's fishing expeditions usually bore only a passing resemblance to truth, any truth at all. 

The jolting of the train as it made the switch to the Balamb track rocked him in his seat, pulling his attention back to the window. Timber had almost entirely fallen away while he'd been distracted. The train gave a last shudder and then almost seemed to hurtle forward, picking up serious speed as it began to travel along its predetermined track. He was sure there had to be a moral there somewhere. 

In an effort to shake off his mood he tried to focus on the passing view. The gentle hills nearly glowed in the falling afternoon light, burned the faint colors of summer and sun. He hadn't been to this part of the world in ... well, longer than he wanted to think about. Pretty much the same as he remembered actually, and idyllic enough if pastoral settings were your thing. Wasn't doing a lot for him personally though. He'd walked over enough landscape to know the only real difference was whether it was mud or dust that you kicked up with each step. And how it tasted when you finally fell down in it. 

If he tried, he could just make out his own pale reflection in the window. His eyes, ghost-like in the trembling glass were glaring back at him as if in accusation. He could only agree silently with his doppelganger; what the hell _had_ he been thinking? 

Home. 

It was funny, it really was. The infamous, the _notorious_ Seifer Almasy finally returning to the scene of the crime. Maybe he should have made this trip in the dead of night, just for the verisimilitude. It would have better suited his sense of the dramatic at least. Or perhaps what he needed was a jester's hat and newspaper coverage of the event. It had all the trappings of comedy after all. Or tragedy. 

Now that was an uncomfortable thought. 

He crossed and re-crossed his boots on the seat opposite, frowning at the scuffed black leather. No answers there but no questions either at least. He'd had too much of the one and precious little of the other lately. His boots were unconcerned with his temper, staring back at him mutely with every mark and stain testament to the miles he'd walked in them. Crawled in them. Damn near died in them. 

Perhaps that was his answer after all. Although it seemed a bit obscure, even for him. 

What the _hell_ had he been thinking? 

It had to be Fujin's fault. For a woman who never talked, she was surprisingly persuasive. Seifer glanced again at her, and this time his motion caught her eye. Her single ruby eye stabbed at him and flashed its coded message, shorthand communication at its finest. He grimaced but waved her off with a twitch of his fingers, dismissing her concern. 

She cocked an eyebrow at him but turned back to Raijin without comment, leaving him to his unsettled mood. Trust Fujin to know what he needed better than he knew himself. Was why he'd agreed to this return to his uneasy past? That Fujin, who never demanded anything of him, had asked? 

The sound of voices in the background rose in pitch, intruding on his thoughts before dropping back again into a hushed buzz. He scowled as he turned once more to the window, determinedly not listening to any of the conversations that teased at his ears. By choice he sat in a bubble of silence, comprised of his presence and his reputation. When they'd boarded this train they'd taken the rearmost seats, with himself sitting on one side closest to the window while Fu and Raijin had automatically taken the seats immediately across the aisle. 

He wasn't sure whether they were protecting him from random intrusion by the other passengers, or guarding everyone else from his legendary temper. Didn't much matter really for it worked out to the same thing. They hadn't been disturbed at all since they'd sat down and it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would dare. As if by unspoken agreement, there was a dead zone around them as the other travelers had unanimously congregated at the other end of the car, packed in like sardines. It was grimly amusing to stretch his legs out to the opposite side, taking up four seats all to himself. 

There had to be some perks to being the Sorceress' Knight. Even if it was sans Sorceress now. 

For a moment he intensely regretted having never passed the SeeD test. That single lowly rank would have earned them a private room on the car reserved for the elite mercenary force. They could have made this trip in style, instead of being forced to travel second class with the unwashed masses. He'd never much cared for crowds, but now being surrounded by strangers was a tortuous exercise in self-control. The posse had taken it all in stride, but he was about ready to chew the seat covers for relief. 

On cue his stomach growled, expressing its displeasure with the neglect he'd shown it today. He hadn't been able to choke down more than a handful of stale crackers at midday and the half a soda he'd snagged out of Fujin's hand. When the stewardess appeared, he was definitely going to send one of the posse after her. Maybe Raijin could liberate a sandwich for him before he died of starvation. Wouldn't do, after all, to get to Balamb and faint on the boarding platform from hunger. That would certainly be damaging to his reputation as a complete badass, not to mention the mortal embarrassment factor. 

His stomach growled again and he rubbed a hand over it, promising it the biggest sandwich he could find as soon as the lady with the food appeared. Worst case scenario, he'd eat when he got to Balamb, which was only a couple of hours away. His stomach settled down a little as if appeased, and he straightened in his seat, trying not to think about food. 

As he changed position, his gaze fell on the gleaming length of Hyperion where it was nestled in the leather strapping over his head. Raijin had rigged it so that it would only take a moment to pull the weapon free. It definitely made him more comfortable to have the gunblade within reach even if it probably made the other passengers twitchy as hell. Maybe the buffer zone between him and everyone else had a more prosaic reason than he'd previously assumed. 

For no apparent reason, he suddenly felt better. A wicked smile teased at his lips, and his eyes lit with mocking amusement. The poor girl at the Timber customs desk had had no idea what she'd been trying to confiscate almost literally out of his hands. 

She'd been so damned young, with a smart little uniform that showed off all her assets to advantage. He'd admired her while he'd been waiting in line to get his boarding pass. Brown hair cut in swinging bob, a cheerful, professional smile... she had been very easy on the eye while he'd been stuck in that queue and he'd taken unashamed advantage of the view. It was only when he'd finally gotten through to her desk that the cheerful smile had turned chilly. 

She'd been very calm, very conscientious and very determined that no one board her train with an unchecked weapon. That had startled him; he didn't remember there being weapon restrictions on the trains before. Obviously one more thing that had changed since the War. He must have looked belligerent for she'd explained frostily that loaded weapons were not permitted in the common areas, and that if he would please check his weapon he would be issued a claim ticket whereupon he could obtain it again when the train was unloaded in Balamb. 

Still easy on the eye though, even if she had been doing her best to stare him down. He hadn't had the heart to tell her that she was out of her league. Such a sweet young thing and so terribly committed to preserving the rules. 

He'd never been any good at rules. Couldn't have honestly said he was about to start trying now. 

Hyperion... was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes after all. He'd never lost track of it, even in the chaos of Ultimecia's death when insanity had pulled everything apart around him. He'd walked out of that chaos barely remembering his own name, but Hyperion had still been in his hand. Surrender it, on the say so of a slip of girl barely old enough to understand that there had been a War? 

He didn't think so. 

Out of the corner of his eye though, he'd seen the guarded look cross Raijin's face, had felt Fujin's stillness crystallize at his shoulder. He couldn't forget that they were always ready to back him, always ready to commit mayhem on his behalf and at his word. That alone had made him choke his temper back down to tolerable levels. Wouldn't have been good, would it, to have wrecked the place before they'd even made it onto the damn train. 

He'd settled for lounging casually on the counter, a deceptive smile on his face. The girl had blinked at the heat of that expression. He wasn't adverse to using his looks to get what he wanted and the pretty clerk had been hopelessly outclassed from the start. She probably just hadn't known it until then. 

Since serious wreckage had been regretfully out of the question, he'd decided to play to his other strength - condescension. When he wanted he could take up a lot of space just by virtue of standing still and he'd done his best to be the immoveable object. He'd no doubt really annoyed all the people waiting impatiently in line behind him but that had been their tough luck. They should have known better than to travel on the same train as the one he was technically scheduled to catch. 

The girl had still been staring up at him with a bemused expression as he'd started to explain, in what he still felt was a very gentle voice, that Hyperion was an honest-to-god relic of the Sorceress War and worth an absolute bundle on the black weapons market. He'd let that sink in for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders. Surely, he'd explained, she could understand why he couldn't let it out of his sight, not for a moment, and especially not for a two hour trip. 

It had taken a second or two, but you could have almost traced the dawning realization as it traveled across her face. There weren't that many gunblades in the world after all, and Hyperion's name was as recognizable as his own. Her eyes had gotten so wide at that point that it was still amusing, even in retrospect. 

She'd stared over his shoulder at the weapon casually strapped to his back, returned to his face, flickered over to the pair standing behind him, back to his face again and this time _registered_ the scar between his eyes. There probably wasn't a soul alive who wouldn't recognize it, stamped as it was in reverse on the Balamb Commander's face. Surprising that she hadn't picked up on it before but maybe she'd been so busy being professional she hadn't really looked at what she was seeing. 

The poor thing's complexion had paled down to milk in an instant and all her official stonewalling had disappeared in a fit of stuttering. She'd stamped his travel pass so fast his hair was probably still disarranged from the wind. The look of relief on her face when he'd turned away peacefully had almost hurt, but he'd become pretty inured to it over the months. He saw it all the time now, when people figured out who he was. 

But there'd been no chance at that point of remaining incognito. While not loud, his conversation with the clerk had been in the middle of a crowded room and he'd almost seen his name flying through the boarding area like a leaf in a whirlwind. Arrogant superiority was the mask of choice in a case like that, so he'd put it on and swaggered through the terminal as if daring anyone to get in his way. True to expectation, people had melted away as if whatever had made him the Sorceress' Knight might be catching. People could be such sheep. 

In that spreading circle of silence the posse had stuck to his side, their solid presence a tacit acknowledgement that he wasn't alone. Hell, they'd probably been happy they hadn't had to fight this time. 

Although if he had to bet, he'd have said that Raijin wouldn't have minded a brawl. Hell, he wouldn't have minded wreaking a little havoc himself to relieve a little tension, but it was a given that Fujin would've disapproved. She never said much but you sure as hell knew when you'd screwed up. A single word from her was as sharp as a scalpel and twice as deadly. He was grateful she was on his side, even if that over-eager train attendant was the worst thing they'd faced lately. 

So here he was, carefully alone on this crowded train and idly wondering if insanity was hereditary in his unknown parentage. 

Fujin had said ... had said _go_. That he was needed. And like a sucker he'd fallen for that excuse. Hook, line and sinker just like one of Raijin's legendary fish. He didn't want to know what that said about him and about what he was willing to believe. 

He hadn't asked, to be brutally honest. Hadn't really wanted to know if it was just a way to get his compliance. Fujin was not above manipulating him to get what she wanted, gods above knew. She was his second in command, smart and efficient in a way that Raijin could never hope to match. They made a good pair, their weaknesses and strengths uniquely balanced between them. With himself as the acknowledged leader of their little world, the one that gave them the focus they otherwise lacked. 

If Fujin had lied... 

Gods, he didn't want to think about it. 

He lifted a hand to run agitated fingers through his short hair, messing up the blonde strands a little more. His hair had probably suffered the worst on this trip, with his uneasy stomach the next victim. By the time he got to Balamb, he'd probably look like Zell. Minus that weird tattoo of course. 

Would anyone meet them at the station? If he had to guess, he'd pick Instructor Trepe as the likely greeting party. It would suit the Instructor's personality to meet them in Balamb, all ice and prim formality. Swear to god, if she tried to pull that holier-than-thou attitude on him, he'd sic Fujin on her, damned if he wouldn't. His silver haired lieutenant would drive the Instructor up the wall within minutes. He couldn't remember off-hand if the two women had ever spent any time together, but it was bound to be an interesting confrontation. Fujin was like a time-delay bomb, silent and unobtrusive until she took you apart. 

Almost against his will, a grin crooked his lips. Quistis Trepe would be lucky to lose only figurative skin if she got on the wrong side of Fujin's sense of loyalty. When he had been just another student in her classes, he'd seen it as his civic duty to get under her skin any way possible. That woman needed to learn to loosen up, or she was going to break something someday. 

His thoughts dwelt on the Instructor for a moment longer, before almost inevitably slipping away. Fragments of images and feelings began to flicker through his mind like light on water. Balamb had been his home after all, more so than any vague memories of the orphanage. 

There had been the hours and days he'd spent sleeping in classes, listening to fighting theory and droning political commentary. The bone deep ache of muscle and sinew as he'd fought to understand Hyperion, until the gunblade became more than a weapon and became instead a piece of his soul. The ever-constant training in the Center, honing reaction and skill until he could be worthy of both fear and respect. Meeting Raijin. Meeting Fu. Learning that he was meant to lead, meant to be the one that others looked to. Learning that he could win. 

Learning that he could lose. 

Damn it. Damn it, he did _not_ want to think about that. 

But he couldn't help himself as a single finger rose to trace the line of rigid scar that ran between his eyes. That had been the moment, the single instant when he'd realized that he could die. It had been exhilarating. It had freaked the hell out of him. He wanted to be there again, in that moment with blood washing over his vision like his own personal apocalypse. 

The silver glory flaring in Squall's eyes. 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, earning him a frown from Fujin that he didn't see, lost in his own soundtrack. 

When the dust had settled, it had been Leonhart who'd ended up the hero of the Sorceress War. Now SeeD Commander of Balamb Garden and he'd rumors that Headmaster wasn't far behind. Everyone's favorite topic, the most revered, the most admired man on this pitiful excuse for a planet. 

But he'd swear to god, any god you wanted to name that it didn't matter. He'd done what he'd set out to do after all, even if he hadn't turned out to be on the winning side after the final fallout. He would be _remembered_. Not for him a fall into obscurity, another face among so many, indistinguishable and unknown. 

It was a point of private, secret pride. You couldn't think about the so-named Lion of Balamb after all, without thinking about him in the same instant. 

The raging violence of his eyes. 

God fucking damn it. Just once, he'd seen it rise for him. Only once, but the memory still burned in his veins like a drug he just couldn't shake. 

At the last, with Ultimecia clawing at his mind like a cancer, he'd thought he'd have it again. Just once more before he died. Leonhart had finally come to him, faced him just as he'd planned with all of that incandescent rage and hatred. It had almost been enough, almost exactly what he wanted. But not quite. Not quite what he'd thought he needed. 

At the end, Leonhart had walked away without looking back. 

And there was no forgiveness for that. 

_______________________________________________ 

In his seat, Seifer shivered with unwitting reaction, his eyes narrowed and suddenly cold enough to freeze air. If anyone had in fact been sitting across from him, they would have moved out of sheer self-preservation. He wasn't aware of it, but he killed with that expression on his face, that look of disdain and utter emptiness. Part of it had been Ultimecia, but part of it was him, just as he had always been. Fujin caught it for she was watching him, and her blood chilled as that lethal light spread across her leader's face. She lost track of Raijin for a moment, her breath unconsciously held as Seifer grabbed her complete attention. 

It was only a moment, and then that terrible look left his face, leaving only Seifer behind. She breathed softly, not sure what had caused that look in his eyes but very grateful that it had been fleeting. True to form, Raijin had only just grasped that something was wrong. His narrative stumbled and he looked at her with a questioning expression. She closed her eye and determinedly looked away, leaving Seifer to his thoughts. It really wasn't her business unless he grabbed Hyperion and started swinging. 

Pray to god that she knew what she was doing by all but forcing him to Balamb. Pray to god that Selphie had been right. Because if either of them had misjudged, there would be rivers of blood before it was over. And her beloved Seifer would suffer more, instead of being made whole again. 

Fujin's thoughts were diamond hard. That scenario was unacceptable. Therefore, she would not accept it. 

"Continue," she said imperiously to Raijin, gesturing impatiently. This journey could not end fast enough. 


	8. auld lang syne

"Tell me again you know what you're doing." 

Irvine glanced down at Zell, a wry look on his face. 

"Nervous?" he asked finally. 

"Hell yeah," the blonde replied. "Aren't you?" As if to emphasize his point Zell punched the floor, denting the wood with absent ease. 

Irvine let it slide, not commenting on the wanton destruction of public property. It was far, far better that Zell work out his nerves on inanimate objects. Since his other option was having Zell work it out on him, it wasn't a tough choice. The blonde was wearing his best set of fighting gloves, the pair he'd named Maverick for reasons known only to himself. The braided leather and metal gleamed darkly over his knuckles. With bare hands Zell was a formidable force - with the gloves, he was a deadly whirlwind of destruction. 

The wooden floor could take the abuse; Irvine was feeling fragile this afternoon. 

He let his gaze rest on the crown of spiky hair nearly at his knees. Actually, Zell was being remarkably calm considering the circumstances. He was only barely holding in his own urge to fidget, and by training and inclination he was much better at waiting than Zell was. 

As if to dispute the observation, Zell hit the floor a little harder and more dust leapt into the air in startled response. People nearby had already moved away but the station guards were definitely starting to eye them up, obviously trying to work up the courage to say something. He reached down with his free hand and gently touched Zell's shoulder. When the other Instructor looked up, he shook his head slightly. 

"Hellfire Irvine, I'm dying here. You absolutely sure he's coming?" 

Irvine looked again at the train schedule where it appeared in glowing letters on the board. It hadn't much changed since the last time he'd looked at it, three minutes ago. Damn things never ran on time. 

"Be here soon enough. Jus' a little longer," he replied. 

Zell straightened from his graceful crouch, to brush hands over his shorts where the dust had settled. They both stood quietly for a moment, tucked into a corner of the Balamb train station. He'd wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, but he pretty much assumed they were failing miserably. It had been a forlorn hope anyways. 

He glared at the platform attendants and they wisely looked elsewhere. Between Zell's restless energy and his own edginess, it was probably best if they were left strictly alone. That dangerous gleam on Zell's hands and the very obvious rifle slung over his shoulder was a very convincing argument to the train security detail to find something else to do. Currently, the three security personnel were occupied, doing god knows what, but it coincidentally kept them very far away from Irvine and Zell. 

Irvine might have felt sorry for them, but this was Balamb. If they didn't know how to cope with agitated SeeDs... well, no time like the present to figure it out. At least they had a good start on the proper approach. Irvine knew from experience that avoidance could be raised to a fine art, and the security guards were practising like there would be an exam on it later. Irvine half-heartedly wished he could ignore his problems like that, but his had a tendency to carry edged weapons. No ignoring that, no matter how much you tried. 

At his side, Zell sighed gustily, warm breath caressing his skin. He found his gaze distracted by the blonde as Zell ran an obviously impatient hand through his hair. The crested spikes wavered before falling into a different set of contortions, still looking as though they'd been glued into position. In a random effort at distraction, a part of his mind wondered how the hell it managed to stay up. 

Now there was a freaking mystery. In his less charitable moments, he subscribed to the popular rumor that Zell had chocobo in his ancestry somewhere. It would explain a lot about the blonde Instructor, the least of which was his gravity defying hairstyle. 

Oblivious to Irvine's odd turn of thought, Zell managed to stand still for about three more heartbeats before dropping once again into his usual crouch. Irvine shook his head but still refrained from comment. If he tried to do anything so boneless, his hip joints would seize and he'd have to be carried off the field on a stretcher. The human body wasn't meant to move the way Zell did, but the martial artist never seemed to notice. Just had to be chocobo there somewhere - only question was how many generations back. He sure hoped it was more than a few, because he'd met Ma Dincht, and he couldn't imagine facing the woman with that thought running through his head. 

"Gods, I hate waiting," Zell declared after a moment, yanking Irvine's attention back to the here and now. The blonde poked at the floor with one finger as if to measure the divots he'd left. "How can you be so damn calm? I'm about ready to explode or something." 

A faint smile crossed Irvine's face even as he shifted his stance a little. 

"I'm 'bout as calm as you are," he said finally, "but if I start shootin', it'll get messy." He dropped his smoky gaze as Zell looked up. "If you want t' punch the floor a few times for me, I'd 'preciate it." 

Zell grinned up at him, eyes lighting with brief humor. 

"Shoulda learned to fight like a real man, 'steada relying on machinery to solve your problems." Zell jerked his chin at Exeter, slung negligently over Irvine's shoulder. The gunslinger flexed his fingers on the trigger guard. 

"This ain't a piece of machinery," he growled back. "This... is the sweetest lady I've ever had the pleasure to dance with. You ain't nothin' but a back street kid who's found a gimmick. This girl," he said, hefting the stock of the rifle, "it takes a little class to show her a good time." 

"You're a scary man, cowboy," Zell said. "You probably fondle that thing before you go to bed." 

Irvine grinned at his friend. 

"I'll never tell," he replied. This at least was familiar territory. Zell was related to an idiot bird species and Irvine adored his gun. The sun rose and set on that, at least in Balamb. 

The humor was only momentary. Zell's face sobered and Irvine felt his own grin slipping away. Questions were rising in Zell's eyes - this was a side of his friend that not many got to see. Most saw only the extroverted and cheerful exterior and completely missed the sharp intelligence that lay behind it. Irvine himself had been mislead at the very beginning but he was good at seeing through the masks that people wore. Zell never seemed to mind how he was constantly underestimated. He had the sneaking suspicion that Zell enjoyed playing the fool. 

But when things got serious enough that Zell dropped the pretense, there was no dodging the man or putting him off. Well, he'd avoided the messy details for longer than he'd actually thought possible. Zell was just going to hate the rest of his plan, he just knew it. No real help for it but at least they'd made it to the station before it occurred to the blonde to ask the obvious questions. And Zell wouldn't walk out on him now, leaving him holding a busted pair against the Knight's three of a kind. Zell just wouldn't do that to a friend... would he? 

"What the hell we _really_ doing here cowboy?" Zell asked, right on cue. "No, better yet, why the hell ain't Quistis here too? Or Leonhart with that ass-kicking gunblade of his? I've got my gloves like you asked but if you intend to scrap it out with the posse, we are seriously out-manned and under-equipped. I could probably take Raijin or Fu one on one but in case you forgot, Hyperion ain't just a pretty piece metal with an edge. Seifer can make the wind bleed with that thing." 

Irvine took a brief moment to admire that honest, if somewhat colorful assessment. He looked down into Zell's serious face, incidentally giving himself time to consider how he wanted to word this. Zell was as cocky as they came, and wasn't particularly afraid to show it. After all, this was a man who could dance his way through a rain of weapons' fire to emerge unscathed on the other side - Irvine had seen it and still wasn't sure he believed it. For the blonde to admit he was outmatched was tantamount to a declaration of religious awe. 

"Easy," he replied softly. "I sure as hell don't intend any fightin'. Think of it… as an honor guard. Seifer deserves at least that much from us." He watched as grudging acknowledgement flickered in Zell's eyes. "As for the Quistis thing, she ain't here 'cause I asked Selphie t'distract her. Right now, she's probably swimmin' in last minute schedulin' problems." He deliberately ignored the comment about the Commander. Leonhart was the reason he was here after all - didn't need the man himself breathing over his shoulder, messing things up more than they probably were already going to get. 

An grin seemed to twist unwillingly on Zell's lips for a moment. Irvine felt an answering twitch on his own face. Quistis was damn near unflappable, but Selphie was a hurricane on wheels. Too bad they couldn't be there to watch the fireworks. 

"Woulda made it even odds," Zell pointed out after a moment, "if Trepe was here. Seifer's a big boy, and I'm all for giving him all the honor he can handle, and a little more for insurance." 

Irvine shook his head. 

"Zell, you're an Instructor, an' a damn good one but sometimes you ain't good at figurin' people out. Seifer steps off that train and sees _three_ of us armed to the teeth, and it _will_ be a fight without any of us sayin' anythin' to start it. If its jus' you and me now, he don't know me that well an' he thinks he knows you. He'll have his two lieutenants behind him and that'll make him feel comfortable enough not to start the next War out of sheer nerves." 

Zell might be intentionally oblivious to things he didn't want to know, but he wasn't slow to grasp Irvine's reasoning. Understanding flashed over his face and Irvine nodded in confirmation. 

"As for Quistis," the cowboy continued, "she's an admirable gal, but she an' Seifer have never been much on polite speakin' terms. An' I got t' talk to Seifer before he gets to Garden." He hesitated for a second, before plunging on with the rest of it. "That's the reason you're here an' not Trepe. You're gonna occupy the posse while I have a little heart t'heart with our returnin' compadre." 

"Hell fucking Fire! Irvine, you trying to get me killed?" Zell's eyes flashed wide as the startled words burst forth. "Or you just got a death wish yourself?" 

"Didn't you jus' say you could handle the posse on your own?" Irvine felt his logic was inescapable. "I'm takin' Seifer." 

Zell was almost spluttering as he jumped to his feet to face the cowboy. 

"Sure, I can handle either of them. Hell, I might even be able to handle 'em both. But you're dreaming if you think they're just gonna stand back while you and Seifer figure out who's faster on the trigger. If you're gonna take him on you'd better do it in one shot, or he'll carve his name in your hide for trying. And that would leave me alone with Fujin! You don't know her cowboy, that woman scares the socks off me. The way she _looks_ at you...." Zell shivered under Irvine's impatient gaze. 

"Damn it Zell, it ain't gonna be that way! How many times I gotta tell you that?" He glared at the blonde until he could almost see the rising panic wilting under his hot gaze. "Lemme explain it this way. I'm gonna peel the posse away, and you're gonna escort 'em back to Garden. _Gently_ escort 'em, Zell. Show 'em the sights of Balamb if you like, hell, take 'em to your mom's place an' feed 'em dinner. I don't care what you gotta do, but keep 'em occupied an' out of my way." 

Zell ran a hand through his hair. He still looked a little panicky, but it seemed like his native good sense was kicking in again, if a little belatedly. The blonde took a couple of deep breaths, obviously getting a grip on himself. The clear blue of his eyes pinned Irvine where he stood. 

"Ok cowboy, ok. You want it, you got it. You're calling the shots here and I'll back you. But you damn well better know what you're doing because I'll be damn lucky if its only skin I lose over this." 

Zell's gaze bored into his and Irvine did his best to give him a confident look. Zell didn't need to know he was sweating bullets himself over it. He'd seriously considered not bringing weapons at all to this little tea party, but at the last couldn't force himself to leave Exeter behind. The familiar weight of his rifle gave him a sense of security, false as it might turn out to be. 

Intent on each other, neither of them noticed as the train schedule flashed to announce the impending arrival of the Timber train. As it was, the approaching whistle startled them both and they looked up as the platform started to tremble under their feet. The rumbling continued for a few long moments and then the train coasted into the station, metal gleaming dully as if with exertion. Its whistle shrilled again even as it shuddered to a stop, steaming as if pleased with itself. For a moment, all was still, as if everyone on the platform was waiting to breathe. 

Then everything broke into swift motion. The security guards suddenly came to the forefront as they began to segregate the crowd into those waiting for arrivals and those who would be embarking for the return trip to Timber. The waiting crowd forgot all about their nervousness of the two SeeDs and babbled excitedly amongst each other as they complied with the shouted instructions. People swirled and moved in front of them as if they were suddenly invisible but Irvine at least could feel no humor in the situation. Despite his best efforts, tension was rising with each heartbeat. Deep breathing helped a little, and he could feel Zell at his side doing the same. There was a shared comfort in that. 

It seemed like forever, but truthfully couldn't have been more than a few moments before the platform was organized and ready. There was the sound of sliding metal, and a hatch opened near the front of the passenger compartment. A few people began to trickle out of the train and then a flood began to disembark. It was barely organized chaos for a few moments as those waiting surged forward to greet the arrivals. 

Irvine and Zell watched from the back, looking for Seifer's distinctive form. Encouraged by the platform staff, the excitedly chattering arrivals began to leave the station and the platform began to empty again. Patiently, the embarking passengers waited to the side behind their red rope, boarding passes clutched in hand. 

Zell glanced at Irvine's profile. 

"See him?" he asked. 

Irvine shook his head but didn't look down, still scanning the few people in front of him from his advantage of greater height. Nobody tall enough or with the right combination of entourage stood out. 

"You think Quistis got the wrong train?" Zell ventured after a few more moments. 

"Nah," he replied automatically, "Trepe just don't make mistakes like that." Irvine frowned and adjusted Exeter on his shoulder. "But if that's th' case, where the hell is he?" 

Perhaps he'd been waiting for the question. Without fanfare, a familiar silhouette filled the arch of the shadowy gangway. It paused for a second before striding out onto the loading platform and then down the steps to the station proper. Like shadows, his posse appeared behind him but Irvine's attention was riveted to the Sorceress Knight. 

Against his will, he could feel his internal temperature spike. At his side, he could feel Zell rise to the balls of his feet but he couldn't spare any attention to the blonde. He watched Seifer walk away from the train, letting body and mind fall into familiar stillness. Time almost seemed to slow for a second as unwanted scenarios ran through his head. Anything from Seifer going for Hyperion as soon as he saw them, to something only a little less drastic that ended up with blood splattered all over the station and civilian casualties that hopefully he wouldn't be around to have to explain to the SeeD Commander. Gods help him, he'd better get this right the first time, or the ill-equipped train security would _really_ learn what SeeD could do. 

But with those grim thoughts flashing through his mind, even knowing that Seifer had to have changed, he'd somehow still been expecting the man he remembered from the War to come walking off that train. And damn it, it just didn't seem to fit what he saw in front of him. 

Without conscious thought, he'd automatically started to catalogue his target as soon as he'd spotted Seifer in the doorway. As tall as he was, he was pretty sure they would stand eye to eye although the last time they'd met, height comparisons had been the last thing on his mind. The arrogant gaze, the swagger in the step, that he remembered very well. The blonde hair might have been a little longer, perhaps a little messier than it used to be, but not so that anyone else might notice. The blue heat of those eyes was sweeping over the station even as black boots struck the floor with an aggressive sound. Irvine could feel himself reacting to that challenging look even though its owner had yet to spot him. Damn, but Seifer could project arrogance like nobody else. It made Irvine's hackles rise even from half a room away. 

But this man was wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a black muscle shirt with some abstract blue pattern on it. The only concession to a fashion statement was a wide silver-studded belt that emphasized the lean physique. It was Seifer, no question, but the man he knew always dressed for maximum intimidation effect. This was more casual than he could ever recall the Knight being and it jarred against Irvine's expectations. The Seifer he knew was as flamboyant as all hell, but at first glance this man was pretty much dressed like any other person intent on enjoying the Balamb Festival. 

He had to admit though that the pared-down look suited somehow. From the way the shirt was painted to the chest, the man hadn't let himself fall out of condition in his self-imposed exile. That gave Irvine a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Against that casual clothing, the buckled strap that held Hyperion to his back was ominous. The famous trenchcoat was conspicuously missing but that might have been simply because it was a warm day. The gunslinger himself had left his armored duster and chaps behind at Garden, albeit with some misgivings. Damn it, he'd played it right when he'd chosen not to wear all his gear. But at this moment, watching the dangerous play of muscle as Seifer stalked forward, he regretted the heat of the day that precluded the unobtrusive use of body armor. 

It was obvious when Seifer picked them out in their semi-concealed position. They weren't precisely hiding, but absolute stillness was an effective camouflage in itself, even in the nearly cleared area. 

There was just the smallest hesitation, easily missed perhaps but Irvine was so wired he could have counted Seifer's eyelashes if he'd wanted to. It was only barely perceptible and then the Knight was moving towards them. Irvine found himself coming forward to meet him. It was weird, but almost by pre-arrangement both Zell and the posse hung back a little, leaving the two men to face each other. 

"Seifer," he said before the other had a chance to speak. "Welcome home." 

Something dark flickered through those eyes but it was the familiar sardonic grin that answered him. 

"Damn rights," the Knight growled back. "You the welcoming committee?" He made a show of looking over Irvine's shoulder, flashing a wider grin at the presence of Zell behind him. "Where's Trepe? Woulda figured the Instructor couldn't possibly stay away." 

"Head Instructor now," he corrected. Seifer returned his hard gaze to the cowboy. 

"Well, well, moving up in the world. What's next on the agenda I wonder?" Seifer looked thoughtful for a moment before his grin flashed again. "Betcha she's got the hots for the Headmaster position. You know she's ruthless when it comes to competition. Better warn Leonhart she's probably gunning for him." Seifer leaned forward conspiratorially. "You let me know if she starts getting out of hand, and I'll put her straight for you." 

Those intense blue eyes gleamed with mockery even as Seifer rocked back on his heels. He considered letting the comment slide, but something about Seifer's attitude warned him against the easy road. He chose to answer the underlying intent, gambling that the Knight was looking for backbone. Wouldn't do to disappoint the man. He narrowed his own eyes as if annoyed and spat back at the blonde. 

"Stuff it Seifer, you ain't impressin' me. I said welcome back, and you don't know how much I mean that, but now ain't the time to remind me how much of an asshole you can be." 

Seifer's smirk got larger, showing white teeth. 

"Didja really miss me, Irvine-baby? Never knew you cared - you was always so busy being Galbadia's pride and joy and all. But maybe it was you that was secretly pining for me, and not Trepe after all." The voice was light and caressing, but those eyes were as hard as nails, assessing Irvine's reaction. "Y'know, I always figured you for the type to play both sides of the field, if you know what I mean. You was always so _friendly_, even as a kid." 

Bloody hell. That was dirty fighting. Irvine could feel a muscle start to twitch in his jaw as he tried to keep his teeth from gritting. God damn but Seifer was fast on the attack. That was an old sore spot, and one he'd thought he was long since past but trust Seifer to have the right combination of sneer and maliciousness to make him feel about eight again, being teased for kissing his friends. 

Seifer's grin deepened as Irvine felt the old resentment start to burn, sparking in his eyes and tightening the skin on his face. He took a couple of deep breaths, letting the silence ride after Seifer's last statement. By the look in his eye, the Knight was enjoying the show. Well, if the intent had been to piss him off, it had worked. Damn Seifer for being the world's largest walking ego. His feigned annoyance was quickly slipping into the real thing. 

And damn it, Seifer was just trying to provoke him into unthinking reaction. He wasn't going to fall for it, he'd be damned before he'd fall for it. He wasn't eight years old anymore, as pleasing as it might have been to jump the guy and pummel him into the ground.This time however, there was no Matron to pull them apart and ground them to different sides of the house. This time, it would be Exeter against Hyperion and even if he won the draw, Squall would kill him when he got back to Garden. Losing his temper simply wasn't an option, at least for the moment. 

So Irvine held his rising temper in check and kept his glare down to a minimum. Moments ticked by as he refused to respond until he could think of something civil to say. Nothing came to mind however and Irvine belatedly realized that if Seifer couldn't get a rise out of him, then his next target would be Zell. He hoped the other Instructor could restrain himself, but truthfully held out little hope. On certain subjects, Zell was as predictable as snow in winter. Heavy snow. 

True to Irvine's estimate, Seifer did the expected. Nice to know his assessments were on target, even if it didn't help him much at the moment. 

"Hey chicken," the Knight called out as he craned his neck to one side to look again over Irvine's shoulder, "didja miss me too?" 

"Like a hole in the head, Seifer," came the growled reply. Irvine didn't have to look back to know the dark expression Zell had on his face but the response had a level of restraint in it that surprised him. Normally, after a taunt like that, Zell would have said something really regrettable. For the other Instructor, it had been practically strangled with politeness. 

"But I missed you so much, sweetheart," the Knight cooed. "Thought about you every night, you know I did." 

Irvine held his breath for a second, but amazingly the fighter didn't take the bait. Knowing Zell, realising that the blonde had to have a literal stranglehold on his explosive temper in order to keep his mouth shut, gave Irvine his sense of perspective back. This was Seifer, for gods sake. It would be strange if the man _didn't_ push for dominance every time he walked into a room. Seifer was always out to prove something and god help you if you didn't measure up to the Knight's expectations. For some reason, Irvine had almost forgotten that. 

And overall, this conversation was going about the way he'd expected it to, even if it had degenerated into name calling faster than he'd figured. But maybe now that they'd all reaffirmed their respective testosterone levels, he could get this dialogue moving in the right direction. Zell was a paragon of virtue at the moment but he probably couldn't hold up under pressure. Hell, _he_ might not hold up if Seifer decided to haul out the big guns. The fact that he'd kissed both Squall and Seifer in a fit of enthusiasm at the tender age of eight was small potatoes. The Knight could dredge up bigger things than that if he wanted to get vindictive. 

"Alright Seifer, you've had your fun. Can we move along t' the important stuff now?" he asked. 

It was interesting to note how fast the malicious humor fell away from the Knight's eyes. Hard blue sapphires stared cooly at him, judging god knows what. Irvine held fast, letting his own expression mirror only waiting blankness. He could feel the air start to charge between them but did nothing for the moment to change it. Seifer never tolerated challenges to his authority, and that much at least did not seem to have changed. That was too damn bad, because Irvine wasn't going to let the man blindside him again. He was calling the shots on this one, however much Seifer was going to hate it. 

He could feel Zell shifting forward a breath more even as he knew the posse were edging closer. He refused to break his concentration on Seifer. This was what he had brought Zell along for after all. 

He stared hard into that piercing blue, refusing to back down from the implicit challenge. _Was_ there anything there, anything there at all that could be used to mend what had broken? He'd never really bought into the common perception that Seifer only used, and never gave. There was no question in Irvine's mind that Seifer cared, and cared passionately about the things that were important to him. 

But that didn't actually mean that Seifer could help, or even that he would want to. Did Seifer have the key to Squall? Would he use it? Or was he just buying into Selphie's insane hope that something could actually be done? It was impossible to tell. Not from this distance at least. He had to get much farther inside than the few feet that separated them. 

"Let's start this again," Irvine said softly. "Welcome _home_, Seifer." 

Something wavered in that deep color, something hungry and desperate. Even as it flashed it was gone, buried in an instant. No matter. Irvine had seen it. 

And the Knight had to know he'd betrayed himself. 

Irvine saw the silent acknowledgement in the mocking twist of Seifer's lips even as the Knight glanced over his shoulder. Whatever look he gave to the posse caused them to ease back. Zell lost a measure of tension at his shoulder and the cowboy breathed an unobtrusive sigh of relief. Everyone was still standing and nobody had even drawn a weapon. It was a bloody miracle. They'd all survived the first few minutes - now it was time to take real control of this before the Knight could figure out a new direction. 

When Seifer turned back, the sardonic facade was firmly reattached in place. 

"Ok, you got me. I'll bite. What's on your mind cowboy?" But before he could answer, the famous smirk flashed again. "Make a habit of greeting old friends with a loaded weapon to hand?" 

He grinned back at Seifer. Surprisingly, he didn't have to force it much at all. He deliberately leaned his weight on one leg, cocking Exeter at a jaunty angle. In an instant, he fairly radiated relaxed good humor. Seifer's eyes widened a fraction, before narrowing again. Irvine didn't think he had a chance of figuring out what was going on. This tactic worked on Leonhart like a charm, so it ought to work on Almasy. The two were eerily alike in so many ways, and not understanding Irvine's sense of humor was not the only thing they shared. 

"When its you, you bet your sweet ass," he admitted cheerfully. "I'd've broken out the twenty one gun salute and the flag wavin' and military escort an' all, but El Presidente Loire got that this mornin' and everyone's still plumb exhausted from the excitement. Besides, they're all at Festival by now, so you just gonna have to settle for us two medium-ranked SeeDs for escort. Trepe would've wanted to've been here too I suppose, but I guess I just plain forgot to tell her. Don't know what I was thinkin'." 

He was rewarded with a startled look. He continued smoothly. 

Besides, you an' me, we got things we need to talk about, an' that's hard to do when you got 'Rexaur tryin' to chew your tail. Exeter's pretty much along for discouragement." 

Seifer was silent, hard calculation on his face but a wary confusion in his eyes. Irvine gave him one of his best grins, letting him draw his own conclusions, as incorrect as they'd probably turn out to be. Finally Seifer shrugged. 

"So we're walking to Garden." 

Irvine let his smile deepen. 

"Yup. Think you're up to it?" 

His answer was a derisive snort. 

"Used to run that trail in hard winter and half-asleep. Won't be a problem. What about you? Think you can keep up, cowboy?" The blue eyes were frankly assessing, sweeping over Irvine as if judging his stamina. He had to give the Knight credit, he sure recovered fast. 

"Hell yeah. But I'm willin' to help you along the rough parts. You jus' let me know when it gets too much and we can rest some." 

Seifer's eyes glinted with appreciation at the verbal baiting. He'd obviously taken the right tack then, by pushing Seifer back from his original aggressive stance. But whatever he'd said was obviously a little much for the posse. Fujin stepped up to Seifer's right shoulder even as Raijin mirrored her move a shade later on the left. Zell leaned in to glare at the lieutenant and the tension instantly spiked. Irvine put a cautionary arm out to bar Zell's chest even as Seifer put a hand on Fujin's shoulder. Nice to know that neither of them wanted to fight. 

"S'ok Fu, me and the cowboy are just getting acquainted. Aren't we, cowboy?" Seifer asked, with a quirk of his eyebrow at Irvine. 

"Jus' getting acquainted, ma'am." He tipped his hat to the silver haired woman. She didn't seem at all appeased but suffered Seifer's arm to be draped over her shoulders without complaint. Her ruby eye glared at Irvine with all the warmth of a laser beam from her diminutive height. He could see why Zell spoke her name with such a level of respect and healthy fear. This was no lady to cross. He could understand now why Zell had chosen to face off against her, even though the man who guarded Seifer's other side was a mountain of hard flesh. She was the dangerous one. 

And Seifer held her complete devotion. That said something for the man, that he could command such a fierce loyalty from such a fearless creature. His hope for the Knight rose a notch. 

"Ok cowboy, I'm getting tired of standing around here collecting dust. By all means, let's go play tag with the local wildlife." Seifer waved a hand in a magnanimous gesture, as if to indicate the way. "It'll be just like old times. Try not to bleed on me though, ok? Its a bitch getting bloodstains out of my hair." 

Irvine didn't move though. Tucked under Seifer's arm, Fujin continued to glare at him out of a baleful eye. The lady obviously suspected something and Irvine found it surprisingly hard to ignore her. Damn she was unnerving. Zell really knew what he was talking about. 

"No, Seifer. Jus' you and me." 

Seifer went from quiet to absolute stillness as a single eyebrow lifted but the Knight's expression didn't so much as flicker. It was Fujin who tried to step forward, moving in front of the large frame of her commander, a snarl lifting her lips. It was Seifer's hand on her shoulder that kept her restrained. Irvine tried not to let that distract him, watching the Knight with all his trained attention. 

"Zell here's all excited to show your friends the sights of Balamb while I take you up t'Garden myself, so's we can have a chance t' talk a bit." 

"Iz'at right?" Seifer drawled after an unblinking moment. "You and me, huh?" He peered over Irvine's shoulder. "You ok with that chicken? Wouldn't want to abandon you or anything, if you was hoping to spend more quality time with me." 

"I'm good," Zell said, shifting slightly at Irvine's shoulder. "Got all the quality I want already." 

"No." 

It took a moment but since Seifer's lips didn't move, Irvine realized that the hard negative had come from Fujin. He tipped his hat to her respectfully, keeping Seifer's face in his peripheral vision. 

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I got some things t'say to the man without witnesses. I'll be careful with him, an' you can have him back safe an' sound at Garden." 

"Protect!" 

That word came out in a fierce hiss. Irvine could all but see the bristling defenses. He risked a brief glance at Raijin, to judge the other half of the posse. The man looked worried, but was obviously taking his cues from Seifer's relaxed manner. Irvine shelved him as a potential problem; Raijin wouldn't do anything until Seifer told him to. Fujin was another matter however - she seemed more than capable of starting trouble on her own initiative. 

"I'm truly sorry ma'am, if it distresses you, but me an' Seifer got some words t' share. If its any consolation, Zell ain't invited either." 

"Amen to that," came a low mutter at his shoulder. 

He couldn't help himself, glancing down at Zell for that heartfelt remark. The blonde didn't look up, but a reluctant grin seemed to twitch on his lips at Irvine's amused stare. 

"S'alright Fu," Seifer was saying. Irvine dragged his attention back to the Knight. "It'll feel great to stretch my legs for again, that last hour on the train nearly killed me. We've been travelling all day and my ass is sore. You know I got Hyperion and the cowboy here's got his fancy pea-shooter. We'll be lucky if anything bigger than 'bugs get in front of us. Don't worry so much." The voice was oddly cajoling, the fingers gripping Fujin's shoulder quite gently. The words sounded strange coming from Seifer but Irvine didn't let his expression change. He noted it though, and filed it away for consideration. 

"Don't like it, ya know." 

That voice was a bass rumble, so deep it was almost startling. Having dismissed the man from active consideration, Irvine had almost forgotten the other half of the posse. 

"Ya know I'm not liking this. Ya shouldn't be leaving us." The man's face was pulled into a worried frown, his arms folded uncomfortably over his chest. He was staring at the back of Seifer's head like the answers to the universe were written there. Seifer didn't turn around to answer him, instead pinching the bridge of his nose in a universal gesture of an impending headache. 

"I'm surrounded by god-damn babysitters," the Knight finally commented. Dropping his hand from his face, he shot a hard look over his shoulder at Raijin. "I'll be _fine_. Go hang with the chicken for awhile. It'll do you good to talk to someone who doesn't understand you." He turned back to fix his blue eyes on the back of Fujin's head. His fingers squeezed and she looked over her shoulder at him, taking her attention off Irvine. "You too. You're never gonna get a date if you don't start stringing more words together. Practice on blondie - he's harmless and oughta be safe enough to play with." 

At his side, Zell nearly choked. Seifer smirked down at Fujin. In return, her expression had all the warmth of a snowbank, but she didn't protest when Seifer gently shoved her forward. She gave him a sour look over her shoulder but that was the extent of her rebellion. She switched her gaze back to Irvine and he did his best to look trustworthy. He must have passed inspection because she allowed him to remain standing. Delicately she stepped around the tall Galbadian to confront Zell. 

She eyed up the blonde fighter, and with a bemused thought, Irvine realized they were practically the same height. It must have been a novel experience for Fujin; not many men were built to her scale. Not that she was short really, it was just that in the company of Seifer and Raijin, she was definitely dwarfed in the size department. Zell seemed to be finding it an experience as well. From his vantage point practically on top of the man, he could see a crimson flush staining the roots of the blonde hair. 

Irvine blinked in surprise. Zell was blushing? 

"Chicken." 

Fujin's voice was non-committal, as if trying out the word, but Zell shot an angry look at Seifer. The Knight's smirk only got wider. Something about the situation was very amusing to the man. Irvine added that to the list of pending questions. 

"Not 'chicken'. My name is Zell," the fighter said impatiently. Fujin was silent for a moment, as if trying to figure out what word would best work in this situation. 

"Chicken." 

Definitely a challenge this time. Irvine wasn't sure what Fujin was trying to do but it seemed to be getting a reaction. The blonde thrust his chin up in a gesture that Irvine recognized very well and glared right back at Seifer's lieutenant. Judging by the scalp color, his flush was receding. 

"No. Zell. That's my name. Just 'cause Seifer's never figured it out is no excuse for you." 

Irvine was amazed. He shot a look at Seifer but had no idea what that smug look might mean. At his side, Fujin and Zell were now involved in some kind of staring contest. Irvine didn't want to intrude, curious how this was going to resolve itself. At this point, the likelihood of weapons was remote so it was weirdly amusing to watch the two of them size each other up. 

"My ... name ... is ... Zell," the fighter said slowly and distinctly. "Keep calling me 'chicken' and I won't take you home and feed you my mom's home cooking. You don't wanna miss that, 'cause its chili night in the Dincht household, and my mom makes the best chili in the world, swear to god." 

"Chili." 

Fujin's startled voice almost made that a question. Zell bobbed his head, suddenly enthused. 

"Oh yeah, best chili around for miles. Just hot enough to make the beer go down so smooth its like heaven, and enough garlic on the bread to knock over a swarm of 'bugs at a hundred feet. My mom's been cooking it since this morning. I tried to stop by on the way in for a taste test, but Irvine was all bent outta shape about getting here. That was a pain in the ass, but my mom probably wouldn'ta let me near the pot anyways, she always says I eat too much and spoil my dinner...." 

Zell sounded like he could have kept going for hours. Fujin looked like she was trying to cut him off at the pass but Irvine considered telling her to save her breath. His friend was on a roll and picking up steam. 

"Zell." 

"...but I don't eat that much, swear to god, just a little bit since I'm a growing boy and all. Y'know you gotta check it, make sure there's enough chilies in there, not too heavy on the salt either. She forgets sometimes that I don't like too much salt..." 

"Zell!" 

Fujin's voice was loud and exasperated. Irvine knew exactly how she felt. Zell could drive a saint to suicide. She'd finally gotten through as Zell stopped his chatter and blinked at her in startlement. A second later a huge grin bloomed on his face. 

"Alright! Wasn't so hard was it?" 

Fujin blinked. She still didn't have any real expression on her face, but Irvine would have bet hard gil she was struggling to keep it that way. Zell had that effect on people. 

"Ok, now that we got that all worked out, lets get going! Gotta tell mom to put a few more bowls out and stuff." Zell halted and eyed up Raijin with trepidation. The man was built like a T'Rexaur, and even the lean bulk of Seifer right next to him didn't do much to disguise the fact. "Gotta remember man, only so much chili to go 'round." Zell's face brightened after a moment. "Can have as much bread as you like though. Always got lots of bread, mom knows I love the stuff and stocks up." 

Casting a covert look at Raijin, Irvine saw an actual grin on the man's face. A little lopsided perhaps, but the first open expression he'd seen on any of them. 

"Ya know I love chili," came that rumbling voice, "and I've heard about your mom's cooking. Famous all over Balamb, Ma Dincht. Ya gotta know I'm looking forward to dinner." 

Zell grinned back, obviously pleased with the recognition of his mother's superior cooking skills. His gaze flickered back to Fujin and although he wilted a little, his enthusiasm didn't fade entirely. Fujin, on the other hand, was looking like she'd swallowed a bug but didn't want to say anything about it. Irvine kept his amusement strictly to himself. Zell had that effect on people too. 

"Seifer?" 

Fujin's tone was almost hesitant. The Knight waved his hand in a shooing motion. 

"It's all right Fu, told you that. Go pester the chicken for awhile. And don't eat too much chili. I gotta sit next to you on the ride back, remember." Fujin looked like she wanted to smile at that. She looked past Seifer. 

"Raijin." 

Now that was definitely a command. With a hard look at Seifer, the second half of the posse began to move. For such a large person, he was surprisingly light on his feet. Or perhaps not so surprising. This man had gone through the War too. 

As Raijin passed in front of Irvine, he halted and stared down at the sniper. It was a new experience for Irvine. He was used to being the tallest one around so it was odd to have to look up slightly. 

"Keep him safe, ya know? Anything happen to him, you don't bother coming back either." 

Irvine didn't reply, not really sure what to say to that. Raijin took his silence for assent, and nodded once before continuing on. 

As Raijin began to bear down on him, Zell began to back up a little toward the station entrance. 

"Ok kids, the glorious sights of Balamb are this way. Keep in line, try not to get lost." Zell peered around the advancing bulk of Raijin to spear Irvine with a bright blue eye. "I'm gone, try not to get killed." 

Irvine couldn't help but grin at him and with a last look, Zell turned and sauntered off, Raijin and Fujin trailing behind. He watched them go and few moments later they disappeared down the front stairs. Irvine swung back to Seifer. 

Now that the others had gone, Irvine realized just how intimidating the Knight could be, up close and personal. Seifer was still grinning, but the effect had very little to do with humor. He was eyeing up Irvine like the sniper was on the menu for tonight's dinner. He just smiled back, unphased by the subtle menace in the Knight's body - Seifer might think he was the biggest badass on the planet, but Leonhart was worse. If he could handle the one, he sure as hell could figure out how to handle the other. 

"Ready?" he asked the blonde. 

"I was born ready," Seifer replied easily. 

Irvine nodded, and turned on one heel to lead the way. 


	9. tea party

As they descended into the tree line the incessant heat that was attempting to fry his brain finally cut off. It was blessed, wonderful relief. 

He ruffled his hair, dislodging the sticking clumps as he let the cooler air circulate. Ahead of him, Kinneas actually adjusted his hat but that seemed to be the only concession to the change in ambient temperature. Ok, so it had been awhile but he sure as hell didn't remember this baking heat. Maybe he was getting old, his blood slowing down or something. 

Seifer snorted to himself. Or maybe the sniper was just a closet masochist. He spread his arms wide, enjoying the sensation as a slight breeze ghosted over his skin. Damn but it was _hot_ out on the plain. 

Curious, he looked around the small pocket of forest they'd just walked into. The Aucauld Plains were his old stomping grounds and if he recollected right, ought to be an actual stream through this particular valley. It would be a welcome respite after the dry heat of the flatlands. Thirst was nagging at him, proof that he wasn't as well prepared for this hike as he'd thought. And goddamned if his feet didn't hurt. 

Not that he'd ever admit any of that to his traveling companion though. But if they found the stream and Kinneas refused to stop, he'd fake a sprained ankle or something. 

Right on cue the sniper glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure that Seifer hadn't ducked out on him when they'd entered the forest. Since he'd been mentally undressing the man for the last couple of miles he was surprised the sniper needed to check. Seifer smirked back but made no attempt to lengthen his stride to catch up. If the man wanted to lead, Seifer had no problem letting him forge ahead. From this angle, the view was pretty fantastic - no point giving it up if he didn't have to. 

The Galbadian was a little taller than he liked them, but with that unusual combination of turquoise eyes and copper hair he was more than prepared to be forgiving. In deference to the heat, Kinneas wasn't wearing a whole lot more than he was which was all to the good as far as he was concerned. Black and tight, low-slung jeans hugged the man's hips; he hadn't put up more than token resistance to the urge to fantasize about what they were covering. The sniper apparently hadn't bothered with a shirt today either, wearing only a loose vest that swayed with each stride. The shifting motion revealed and then hid the sleek muscles of his lower back. 

It was distracting as all hell, especially when the sniper leaned down a little to duck overhanging branches. 

He made no effort to rein in his imagination. So far, this hike had turned out to be about as exciting as watching the dust collect on his boots. Idly wondering what his chances were with the cowboy was infinitely preferable to wondering about what might be waiting to greet him at Garden. The best case scenario would be if everyone stayed the hell out of his way... and that was just plain depressing to think about. A pariah in the place he had once considered home. It was enough to make a man swear off acts of rampant megalomania. 

Damn it, he'd play it by ear, like always. If it got too nasty he could always turn right around and walk out. There was nothing tying him to the place after all, not anymore. Fujin would just have to forgive him if he had to bail. 

Realizing his thoughts were starting to wander down a path he'd sworn to avoid, he grimly yanked them away. He really didn't want to think about his likely reception at Garden. Worrying about it wouldn't do him any good at all and he was too damned young to be trying for ulcers. Ahead of him, Kinneas swayed easily to the side as he moved around some fallen deadwood, and the sleek movement gave him something else to focus on. Given tactic permission to distract itself, his mind moved back to the nearest available target - in this case, the rather intriguing personality that the sniper had turned into. 

As he trailed along silently in Kinneas' wake, he tried to decide what the man's agenda was. When he'd stepped off the train and seen the two of them waiting he'd hesitated out of sheer surprise. He'd been so _sure_ it would be Trepe that would come to meet him. Damn it, he'd psyched himself up to deal with his old Instructor. Instead, he'd gotten the chicken… and Kinneas. Zell was easy to dismiss, he'd spent so much of his life picking on the blonde that it was ingrained habit by this point. But the cowboy now... that definitely required some strategic re-thinking. 

He'd long ago realised that he couldn't really trust his memories from when he'd been the Knight. He _remembered_ the sniper, remembered very well the scream of the bullets that had torn his shoulder apart, blown half his chest away. It hadn't mattered then, and it didn't matter all that much more now. So much of that time was filtered through what the Sorceress had needed, had demanded of him that there was nothing left for personal animosity. He'd done what he'd had to do. The sniper had no doubt done the same. 

So odd as it sounded, considering they'd been been doing their level best to kill each other nearly twelve months ago, this was the first time he'd had the chance to meet the man that his childhood playmate had grown up into. 

When they'd stood measuring each other up at the station, Kinneas hadn't once cowered or shown any real fear towards him. Respect, oh yes, that had been there. A wary recognition that Seifer was a loose cannon at the best of times. But no shadows in those clear eyes, no flinching or hesitation. No fear at all as far as he'd been able to tell. The cowboy had stood there and stared him down, had all but dared him to draw Hyperion in a fit of temper. Kinneas hadn't seemed be even remotely worried about consequences. 

It had been... soothing. He spent too much of his damn time among people who cringed in front of him, who looked at him out of eyes that refused to hold steady. The sniper probably hadn't known it, but he'd been an absolute breath of fresh air. He'd all but forgotten what it felt like, to be with those who knew him for exactly who he was and weren't particularly intimidated. To know that if he didn't toe the line, they'd try to kick his ass for it. 

For some reason, that was oddly comforting. 

It certainly didn't help that somewhere along the way while he'd been distracted, Kinneas had gone from pretty child to stunningly handsome man. The sniper made no effort to hide the fact that he was better put together than most women, in fact seemed almost to flaunt his nearly feminine beauty. Warm colors over warmer skin; the sleek, feral grace of that tall body; if Kinneas was an animal he'd be a panther. From the dusty golds and rich blacks of his clothing, to the barbaric necklace at his throat that seemed more suited to a courtesan - this was a not a man afraid of attracting attention, of any kind. A raw sexuality practically glowed beneath that skin, radiating with the impact of a small nova. 

If he was a betting man, he put down solid gil that the sniper played up that androgynous look on purpose. The man probably had more lovers than he had bullets. And that was definitely saying something. 

He hadn't seen any evidence of any hangups over that ambiguous appearance either, even on this extremely short acquaintance. He'd met men with that brand of prettiness before and it usually ruined them. Either they went all the way over into trying to be women, or they became rabid dogs trying to live it down. Kinneas wasn't that easily categorized, obviously very comfortable in his own skin. Assured. Confident. Oh yeah, Kinneas had the confidence corner all sewn up. There had been a very penetrating intelligence in those eyes, coolly looking him over at the station. And behind that reserve there had been a definite, specific warmth. The man really had been glad to see him. 

Seifer didn't try to fool himself that he was immune to the attraction, since last time he'd checked he'd still been an air-breathing mammal. Kinneas probably had that effect on most people, the only exceptions probably being the ones safely dead and out of active contention. Maybe that's all it was and he could write off his strange reactions to simple lust. To the appetites of his body that he'd long ago thought dead and buried in the wreckage of his life. An simple, instinctive response to that blazing warmth, to the all but palpable sensuality the man exuded. Gods knew he had been all but celibate for months, since long before the War. 

Standing there, in the filtered light of the station, he'd felt... something. Wasn't even sure what exactly but he could feel it still, a filament of fire. Something cold and dead was coming back to life and he could feel the tingle of returning sensation beneath his skin. It wasn't lust although he wasn't going to say that wasn't part of it. What it did feel like was... acceptance. The oddball certainty that he was back where he was supposed to be. That he _belonged_, standing in that cold station squaring off with Kinneas. Even trading insults with Dincht had been a strange deja vu, like nothing at all had happened to change who they were to each other. 

And that was just plain crazy. He'd come within a hair of handing the world to his Sorceress, damn near killing them all in the process. Hell, he'd sacrificed Rinoa without a second's hesitation, delivered the woman he'd sworn to protect right into Her hands. There was no way that they could ever forgive him for that. Hell, he wasn't even sure he'd gotten around to forgiving himself yet. But still, the certainty persisted. 

When the sniper had practically ordered him to lose the posse... he hadn't hesitated at all. Even in the face of Fujin's legitimate suspicions and worries, he'd gone with his gut instinct and followed Kinneas' lead. While he was the first to admit he was almost recklessly impulsive by nature, his capitulation was ringing tiny little alarm bells in his head. 

He never, ever second-guessed himself. That would be an invitation to disaster considering the kinds of choices he habitually went for. On the train he'd determined to just get to Garden and get it over with, let the damned consequences fall where they may. But something in the sniper's eyes had stopped him cold, something he'd seen and still couldn't identify had made him reorient on the spot. 

Maybe... it had been the intensity he'd seen. Kinneas had been very smooth, very slick, but he'd felt that almost desperate urgency in the man. So he'd posed, he'd said the expected things, but in the end he'd let the sniper have his way. 

And he had the sneaking suspicion that Kinneas had seen right through the pretense. 

Oblivious to his straying thoughts, the man ahead of him put out a hand to move a branch out of his way. Black gloves caught his attention, cut off fingers more suited to precision control than comfort. Seifer had tried that style himself, but Hyperion was more blade than gun and he'd discovered he needed full gloves in order to keep his two-handed grip secure in bad weather. Kinneas was a sniper though, a SeeD assassin, and no doubt sacrificed the grip for being able to feel the sensitive pressure of the trigger. 

Gunblades weren't that finicky - as long as the blade was on target, the bullets would travel more or less where they needed to go. No finesse on the revolver, but it made up for it with sheer power. It was an extra edge that Seifer had used to dig himself out of some pretty deep holes. 

Nothing quite so satisfying as an opponent who thought they were safe if they were out of reach. 

The shotgun in the sniper's left hand was held very casually, almost dangling from the fingers, but Seifer knew better than to think that Kinneas wasn't prepared. Better than anyone, he knew just how fast and accurate the sniper was on the draw. The fact that he was behind the cowboy was a small advantage but he wouldn't underestimate the man, not again. He wasn't even sure what kind of ammo the sniper was packing, and without knowing it would be foolhardy to push anything just to satisfy his curiosity. Hyperion was still secured to his back and the few seconds it would take him to pull it forward would be all the time the Galbadian would need. No doubt Kinneas knew it too, which was probably why he was walking ahead of Seifer. 

Cocky bastard. He couldn't help but smile. 

He automatically ducked to avoid a cluster of vines that were trying to wrap themselves around his throat. Kinneas had already ghosted ahead, moving with economic grace through this pocket of cool greenery. Seifer followed almost as easily, a little out of practice but it was coming back to him with every step. He made sure not to let the sniper get too far ahead of him. Wouldn't do to get caught by something large and nasty, with Hyperion that crucial few moments out of reach. This wasn't the plains; they could walk right into something before they even realised it was there. 

He knew very well what he was doing. Question was if the Galbadian had figured it out yet. With his gunblade still sheathed, the sniper was the one who was responsible for keeping them both alive. He found himself amused by the irony of that. 

Idly he wondered what Kinneas would look like wearing nothing but that half-hidden necklace. A wave of heat went through him, tightening his body. Seifer grinned mockingly at himself. It really had been far too long. And perhaps it was time to remedy that. 

So far on this little side trip they'd said very little to each other. He'd kept his mouth shut once they'd left Balamb and he'd allowed Kinneas to dictate the pace. Regardless of whatever was on the sniper's schedule it delayed his eventual arrival at Garden which was all to the good at this point. The closer he got to the reason for this trip, the harder it was to remind himself that this wasn't the stupidest idea he'd ever had. This detour was turning out to be a blessing in disguise, the physical exertion at least working off some of his edge. Being able to admire how well the Galbadian had turned out was strictly icing. 

He heard it before he saw it; the sound of running water. He lengthened his stride without thinking about it, the dryness in his mouth a convincing argument for haste. He broke into the small clearing almost on the cowboy's heels. 

It was just as he remembered. A small break in the trees, the stream here had reached the surface and bubbled along in happy contentment. A shelf of rock underneath this area had forced it up and created this pocket of forest on the otherwise featureless grass plain. It was very welcome sight. Ignoring Kinneas, he bent on one knee and used his cupped hands to bring the fresh water to his lips, slaking his thirst. 

At his side, the sniper remained alert, continuing to scan the surrounding foliage. Seifer left him to it, pulling water carefully into his body. Wouldn't do to cool down too fast and risk cramps. Finally, the cowboy must have determined that they were safe enough and bent down himself at the water's edge, laying the rifle within easy reach. 

Seifer drank a little more and rubbed wet hands over his face and hair. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Kinneas finally capitulated to the heat, removing the hat to splash water over the back of his neck. Copper flared against the backdrop of green, and Seifer sat back on his heel to admire the view. The cowboy splashed water over his face and bent to take another mouthful before noticing Seifer's stare. The sniper turned to look at him and he could only grin in definite admiration. 

"See somethin' interestin'?" Kinneas asked after a long moment. 

Seifer grinned a little more and lazily stretched his arms above his head. He climbed to his feet, deliberately ignoring the sniper's question and curious gaze. Scanning the forest himself, he let the small breeze play over his arms, breathing deeply. Here in the heart of the Aucauld, these little oases were almost magical places. Here was where you could be alone, if you were brave enough to dare the creatures that lived here. This place, or one very like it, had been his escape more times that he would admit to anyone. 

Looking back over the recklessness of his younger self he could only shake his head ruefully. Damn, he'd been lucky - and more than lucky a few times. Would it have made a difference to how things had turned out if he'd even once lost one of those fights? Would he have learned to become more cautious? To take on smaller risks, lesser challenges? How much different would things have been if he hadn't always been so convinced he could win? 

It was a sobering thought. 

Kinneas finished drinking and reclaimed both rifle and hat, climbing back to his feet with the easy grace that Seifer was coming to understand as natural. For a moment they stood there together, both of them listening to the small sounds of the forest around them. Seifer found himself wondering what the man was thinking, for in profile the cowboy's face was both cool and remote. However, when the sniper began to move away Seifer simply turned to follow. He found himself still reluctant to push for anything, even the explanations he probably should have been demanding. 

But the sniper only went as far as the edge of the small clearing. At the border of the surrounding brush, a half-hidden boulder became apparent as Kinneas turned to sit on it. He stared at Seifer from across that small distance, one booted foot propped up on the grey rock even as the other braced him against it. From under the tipped darkness of his hat, his eyes watched Seifer with an unmistakable alertness. 

Seifer came to an uncertain halt, suddenly wary of the sniper's motives. Didn't take a genius to figure out they were getting around to the point of this little excursion. Exeter was cradled negligently in those bare arms but Seifer still tensed with a prickling foreboding. From this distance, there was no way he'd get Hyperion out before Kinneas could nail him. 

He berated himself silently. If the sniper went for the single, fatal shot, he'd never know it anyways. If it was anything less than a killing hit he would Heal instantly. 

Hyperion was never more than a heartbeat away. 

"Y' know," the sniper said abruptly, "you look jus' like Leonhart when y' talk to yourself." 

Seifer was startled. He managed to get a sneer on his face though. 

"Fuck you Kinneas," he replied, if somewhat less than smoothly. "The only thing me and Leonhart got in common is good taste in weapons." 

"I wouldn't be so damn sure 'bout that," the man said imperturbly. The cowboy lapsed back into silence and continued staring enigmatically across the clearing at him. Seifer let it ride for a minute or two but it was starting to get uncomfortable, just waiting there. Felt like he'd been dragged up to Cid's office again, only to have the Headmaster glower at him without saying anything. He looked around but didn't see anything obvious to sit on and damned if he'd sit on the ground in front of the sniper. 

Finally he shrugged. It wasn't like he was helpless here. 

He turned away and took a few steps back towards the other side of the clearing, unbuckling Hyperion as he went. The sheath fell into his hands as sweetly as always, the hilt swinging forward and nestling into his hand with the ease of long practice. In one smooth motion he pulled the blade free, discarding the sheath to the side. Behind him, he heard Irvine shifting but didn't turn around to see if the man had put his finger on the trigger or not. He picked a likely looking tree and began the deceptively slow turn that would swing the blade in a destructive arc over his head. 

The noise was impressive. Birds scattered in every direction from the crash of the foliage and he could hear the panicked flight echoing away in all directions. He smirked. Nice to know he hadn't lost his touch with wholesale forest clearing. Random destruction always had been one of life's little pleasures. 

He kicked the tree with one foot. Solid. A couple passes with the gunblade cleared a couple of smaller branches out of his way and he turned to sit facing Kinneas, the tree still protesting its demise beneath him. He casually dug the point of Hyperion into the ground, the grip secure in his hand as he leaned some of his weight on it. 

Sure enough, the sniper had adjusted Exeter to a better firing position. Seifer let his smirk grow into a full-fledged grin. If Kinneas thought he was in control of this, he was more than willing to show him the error of his ways. Across from him, the cowboy sighed. 

"You're a pain in the ass, Almasy." 

"You love me for it," he riposted. He cocked his head and watched the sniper obliquely. "Your life was boring before I got here." 

Surprisingly, Kinneas actually grinned back at him. 

"That's one way t' put it," was the answer. "On the plus side, at least we don't have t' worry about anythin' jumpin' us now. The commotion probably scared most everythin' right outta the forest." 

"My plan exactly," he agreed. "So start talking cowboy. What the fuck is so goddamned urgent that you gotta haul both of us halfway across the plains? These boots were made for walking, but my feet have gotten used to the good life." 

The amused expression on the sniper's face almost instantly retreated to be replaced by an ominous blankness. Seifer cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Damn, whatever it was, it was important based on that look alone. His guess was pretty much confirmed when the cowboy's eyes slid away a moment later to stare at the ground. This was the first time since they'd met at the station that he'd seen the man look anything other than self-assured. Shit. Not good. Not good at all. Something was definitely wrong. 

He frowned, eyebrows pulling together as he tried to figure out what exactly could produce that particular lack of expression on the cowboy's face. Wasn't actually fooling him any. He knew that mask, used it all the time himself and it really didn't bode well for the cowboy's eventual topic of conversation. He'd been hauled out to the middle of the Aucauld, with only the 'bugs and the 'rexaurs for company for miles in any direction. Add into the equation that Kinneas was staring at the ground like grass was fascinating and that he _still_ hadn't said a damn thing. It was all totalling up to something pretty damn dire. 

It took a second, but then ice began to crawl up his spine. 

From the place where he buried all his nightmares, an ugly voice was whispering the answer to him. Oh shit. Oh please god no. But it would more than explain the look on the cowboy's face, the remoteness of the location. 

There suddenly wasn't anywhere near enough air in his lungs. He ignored the sick feeling of vertigo, bracing himself as best he could for the words he knew were coming. Had to hear it. Had to _know_. 

"Who died?" Sweet fucking gods, _no_. 

Kinneas' gaze flew up and Seifer could read the astonishment on his face. It was all he could do not to visibly sag as he realised he'd guessed wrong. Thank all the fucking gods, he'd guessed wrong. 

"Ain't nobody dead. But... maybe you ain't so far off either." 

Now how about that for a confusing statement. He glared across the clearing at the cowboy, aching relief predictably giving way to anger. He let it ride, wanting the familiar heat to chase away the wooden taste of fear in his mouth. 

"Damn it cowboy, then what the hell _is_ the problem? Somebody 'almost' dead?" He could handle that. 'Almost dead' was a hell of a long way from 'cold in the ground'. 'Almost dead' he might be able to do something about. 

Across the way, the cowboy sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as if easing a strain. Seifer leaned forward impatiently, Hyperion sinking a little further into the dirt. Kinneas was trying to work himself up to something; he could see the signs. Wire thin tension was still trying to sing along his nerves but he willed himself to stay calm. He could wait for the revelation. 

"Why the hell you here, Seifer?" 

Seifer could only blink. What? 

"Why here? Why _now_?" 

He frowned at the other man. Why was he here? Had the cowboy hit his head or something recently? 

"Its Festival, you idiot. Tilmitt sent me an invitation." Seifer shrugged, vaguely uneasy about that glib explanation. Damn it, it was the truth. Wasn't it? 

"So y' dropped everythin' to come runnin' back. Never knew you was that interested in ring toss an' dart balloons." The dry sarcasm in the sniper's voice was unmistakable. Seifer glowered at him. Well, if he was gonna put it _that_ way, sure it sounded stupid. 

"I ain't buying it Almasy. You _disappeared_ damn it, nobody knew where th' hell you were. Trust me, we turned over every damn stone we could think of t' find you. Then Selphie waves some kind of magic wand to track you down jus' to send you an invite to the fair. An' you drop everythin' t' come rushin' right back. You mean t' tell me you don't notice somethin' unusual about that?" 

He jerked his chin up in a defensive reaction. He didn't have to explain his reasoning to Irvine. Damn it, he hadn't even gotten around to explaining it to himself yet. 

"Alright cowboy, you're acting like you got all the damned answers. So _you_ tell _me_. Why the hell _am_ I here?" 

"Because Fujin said something t' you. An' you had to come." 

Seifer could only gape. 

"Fuck cowboy, how the hell'd you come up with that little fantasy?" 

"S'truth, ain't it? Tell me I'm wrong Seifer. You tell me somethin' that Fujin said didn't put a fire spell under your ass t' make you come flyin' back here." 

Seifer glared at him. No way was that right. He opened his mouth to say it too, to throw those words right back into the cowboy's face. 

Shit. 

All he could do was glare. Irvine nodded slowly. 

"I don't know what exactly Fujin said, but I know she an' Selphie figured out some plan t' get you here. An' we took this little walk cause I decided you need t' know why." 

Seifer grimaced, his temper flaring. Damn it, he was going to strangle Fujin's pretty little neck. He'd just _known_ she was buried up to her eyebrows in something when she'd set this up. His own damn fault for not insisting on details. 

"Selphie set you up for this?" he demanded. Surprisingly Kinneas shook his head. 

"She's got a damned good guess what th' deal is, but she's still pretty much workin' in th' dark. They were gonna let you walk in blind, y'know, jus' t'see how things went down. That ain't gonna work, but there's no point tellin' Selphie that. She's really got a thing for surprises." Irvine shook his head as if his friend's thinking was unfathomable. Seifer tried to keep his anger down to a low simmer. So far, the cowboy seemed to be playing it straight. 

"Spill it, Kinneas. All this dancing around's really starting to piss me off." 

From across the small clearing, Irvine shrugged. 

"Ain't that easy Seifer, and even you have got t've figured that out by now. Right now, your biggest worry should be whether or not you're even goin' to get t' Garden." 

In a fluid motion almost too fast to see the sniper stood, bringing Exeter to his shoulder. Seifer had his hand on Hyperion but didn't have a hope in hell of bringing it up in time. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. He'd allowed himself to be distracted, and the sniper had used that to put him away. He kept his hand on Hyperion's grip though. One wrong move, one distracted _blink_ in the wrong direction and he'd have the cowboy. Or go down trying. 

"Who died?" Irvine demanded. 

What the hell? 

"You thought somebody died. I saw it in your eyes; you thought the fuckin' worst. _Who died_?" 

Vertigo. Hard metal in his mouth. The blood that had been fucking everywhere. And the eyes he couldn't forget. Life on this mudball planet would be worthless if they'd closed for the final time. 

Because it had all been for him. 

"Fuck you, cowboy," Seifer snarled. 

The sniper was steady, sighting down at him along the smooth bore. Irvine's eyes were blank, a deadly calm over that smooth skin. Fucked if the cowboy wasn't prepared to nail him where he sat. He remained still, tensed and vibrating. One chance maybe. One chance to _move_ and take the cowboy down with him. 

With an easy motion, Irvine shouldered the rifle. 

Seifer surged up, Hyperion in a death grip in his hand. Had it cocked and ready faster than he'd ever moved, aimed right for the cowboy's heart. Kinneas didn't even flinch, staring steadily down the blade at him. From this distance he couldn't miss, he'd blow a hole through anything a dozen feet in front of him. 

One second. 

Two. 

His hand was starting to waver. Fuck. Fuck the cowboy. Fuck what he said. 

"D'you get it yet?" Kinneas asked as if he wasn't staring down the barrel of a weapon that could blast a hole in his body big enough to fly through. "Figured it out, Seifer? He ain't dead. But he might as well be." 

Shut up, cowboy. Shut the fuck _up_. Those fearless eyes were staring at him, _into_ him, as if the sniper could see what he'd torn loose with that question. Seifer's hand was shaking, and it wasn't just from the strain of holding Hyperion at arm's length. Those eyes, the ones he fucking couldn't forget were burning holes in his mind. Goddamn it cowboy, _what the fucking hell was going down in Garden_? 

Pull the trigger Almasy, or put the goddamn thing down. Hyperion wasn't a fucking feather. 

Pull. The. Goddamn. Trigger. 

Seifer let his arm drop. 

Kinneas sat down again, tossing his black hat to the ground in a careless motion. The rifle followed to rest against the rock, still within easy range but no longer a stated threat. The man hooked a thumb through the belt loop on his jeans, staring consideringly at Seifer from his vantage point. He was posed like a model from a glossy magazine with that amber-gold hair gleaming against the backdrop of deep green forest. 

Ten minutes ago he would have been riveted by the sight. Now it was all he could do to keep his breathing under control. 

"Don't fucking play with me, cowboy," he finally managed to growl through the hammer of his heart. "You fucking point that thing at me again and I'll take your goddamn head off." 

"Shove it, Seifer. Next time Exeter's aimed at your head, you ain't gonna have the chance to do anythin' about it afterwards." 

The sneer was in the words, but the tone was inexpressibly weary. Seifer took the hint and sat back down before his knees gave way. Hyperion rang like a muted bell as he stabbed it viciously into the ground, striking a stray rock. Across the clearing Kinneas ran an impatient hand through his hair, raking it out of his eyes. 

"I needed t' know. I figured... hell, I don't know what I figured." Those intense jade eyes stared across at him as Irvine cocked his head. Seifer could feel the random twitches running through his fingers where they were still wound around Hyperion's hilt. Fuck, he'd come _that_ close to blowing a hole in the cowboy. A part of him was wondering why the hell he hadn't. Nobody got away with screwing with him like that. Nobody. 

"What the fuck is going down in Garden?" He couldn't bring himself to say the name. Kinneas could do all the goddamn talking. 

"Other than the usual Festival madness? Oh nothin' much," Irvine said in a deadpan voice. Seifer jerked his head up and glared. The cowboy held up a conciliatory hand. 

"Sorry. Just don't know where t' start. Or how much is safe t' tell you." 

"Start _talking_, Kinneas. I'm holding onto the urge to beat you into a pulp by my fucking teeth." 

"That and twenty gil will get you a return ticket back on the Timber train." 

Seifer narrowed his eyes; belatedly re-evaluating how fast the sniper could pick up the rifle. Nah, this time he'd have him beat. He wouldn't get caught out like that again. Kinneas continued, his soft voice eerily clear across the sound of the water between them. 

"If at any point durin' this conversation I figure you're goin' to make the situation worse, we're turnin' around and I'm packin' you back on that train, even if its your carcass I load. I can't afford to make a mistake on this." 

Seifer glared at him, keeping his breathing deep and level. Ok, something had obviously gone extremely wrong in Garden-land, and from the name that they were both avoiding, he had a very clear idea as to who. Question was, what the fucking hell had happened. Visions of the Infirmary kept trying to flash through his mind, pristine walls awash in blood. He locked ghost fingers over that image and ruthlessly held it under. 

"Start _talking_ cowboy," he said as gently as he could. It came out more like a snarl, but hey, he was trying. 

"T' hell with that. _You_ talk to me," Irvine said. "Start at the beginnin'." 

"We got time for that?" When in doubt, fall back on sarcasm. 

"At this point, it's probably th' only thing we got," was his cryptic reply. "Let's start laying a few things down t' rest, see where it gets us. I gotta know I can trust you, and for that, I gotta know who the hell you are." 

He couldn't help himself; he started to chuckle. Bitterly amused, it welled up and filled the air around him with anger. His eyes speared the sniper where he sat. 

"You figure out who I am cowboy, you tell me. Trust me, I'm the first one interested in knowing." 

"Where the hell'd you go after the trial Almasy? We looked, but you just up an' disappeared. We tore that city apart but you'd just vanished like a bird." 

"Oh hell, ask me a tough one. It was _easy_, cowboy. Just walked out of that damned courtroom down to the bus station and boarded the first thing that came by. Ended up in a little hole called ... oh hell, Rolock I think. Had a stiff drink in the hotel bar, and got the next one going out in a different direction. Four days and I have no fucking idea how many drinks later, I wound up in a little backwater somewhere near Heaven. A couple of dozen people, a little fishing, a little tourist trade going through... I fit in like nobody's business. Pretty much stayed there ever since." 

"How'd the posse find you then?" 

Seifer sneered at him. 

"Fujin's smarter than you assholes." 

For a moment, Irvine looked like he was going to take exception to that. Then a crooked grin flitted over his lips. 

"Yeah, I guess that's right," the sniper agreed after a small silence. 

"If we're playing twenty questions, it's my goddamn turn. Who the hell made you judge and jury to decide what I'm allowed to do and where I'm allowd to go? I don't recall you getting elected Headmaster and I sure as hell don't remember appointing you my social coordinator." 

This time the grin was unmistakable and it was setting his teeth on edge. When was the cowboy going to get to the point? 

"You _need_ a keeper Seifer, if only t' keep your dance card straight." Irvine continued to look at him with that odd quirky expression, and Seifer did his level best to glare back. Despite his best effort to hang onto it, his anger was starting to bleed away. Problem was, under that anger was a sick feeling that wasn't going away. 

Kinneas had said he was alive. He held onto that like a mantra. 

"Now who's being a pain in the ass?" he growled. 

Irvine gave him a small shrug. The sniper's expression cooled down as the warmth disappeared. In fact, if he had to name the expression, he'd say the cowboy was brooding at him. That was just plain weird. Leonhart was the one who brooded. The laid-back cowboy just wasn't the type. 

"What was Zell's favorite toy? The one he used to hide under his bed all th' time because you kept threatenin' to break it?" 

Now where the hell did _that_ come from? 

"Damn it cowboy, what's that got to do with anything?" 

"Answer the goddamn question, Almasy." Irvine's voice was as hard as his bullets and about as relenting. 

"Shit, I don't know. That stupid toy train? Nah, he broke that himself." Seifer racked his memory for a couple of seconds. Who the hell remembered what the chicken had played with as a kid? And he'd probably threatened to break practically everybody's toys at one time or another. He snapped his fingers. "I know, that dumbass clockwork dragon, the one with the wings that were supposed to flap and never did." 

Irvine stared at him for a moment or two, with a tight expression on his face. Seifer glowered back at him, unimpressed. He'd done a lot worse since than break a few toys. 

"You remember the orphanage, you remember Matron, you _remember_ being a child. How is that possible? They wiped you!" 

Seifer's train of his thought come to a crashing pileup in his forebrain as Irvine's words sunk in. What the hell? 

"Wiped?" he repeated stupidly. 

"Yeah," the cowboy confirmed in a hard voice. "When we were sent away from th' orphanage, when Matron gave us away to th' Gardens, they raised a Guardian for us. Eight fucking years old and they junctioned us to it. At least, everyone but me. Me, they left alone." Irvine bit off each word, like they were bitter pills. 

Seifer couldn't wrap his head around it. He stared at Irvine, racking his mind for a memory of what the man was saying. Of course he fucking remembered being a kid. He remembered the garden they played in, Zell's stupid toys that he was always tripping over, the cake that Matron had made him on his birthday. He remembered leaving the orphanage ... there was nothing after that. 

Seifer frowned. He scanned back and forth in his mind, rooting up memories of that time. Nothing. Nothing from the time he'd walked out of the orphanage holding Leonhart's hand... until he was in Balamb, training to be a SeeD cadet. He'd been ten when he'd been accepted for candidacy. Two fucking years. Lost somewhere. 

Across from him, Irvine was nodding slowly as the sniper read the darkening, incredulous look on his face. 

"It was deliberate. That part of your life is probably gone forever, totally blanked out. What I wanna know is how you remember _anythin'_ from when you were a kid. In th' station you threw up in my face that I'd kissed you in that garden. I was th' only one they left intact, _so how come you remember_?" 

Bile was rising in his throat. He knew. But he didn't want to say. 

"I just do, alright?" he finally managed to spit out. It was weak, and he knew it. He glared at the cowboy, wanting him to get the message that this was not a line of questioning he wanted to continue with. Kinneas didn't seem to be catching his drift though. 

"Screw that Seifer. You _remember_ and I wanna know why. I haven't seen you in years, and I'm the one with th' key to those memories." No mistaking the cold anger in that voice, although he could tell the emotion wasn't directed specifically at him. "Cid an' Edea _wiped_ you, erased everybody but me before they sent us away. What the hell happened?" 

"Fuck cowboy, what do you think?" Agitation drove him to his feet, Hyperion a dead weight in his hand. "Why you being so damned insistent? Who the hell _cares_ what happened?" 

"I do. I care." 

Seifer blinked in the cowboy's direction. The words had been so damned soft, he'd nearly missed them. It took him aback for half a second. 

"Always knew you was hot for me," he finally managed to sneer back. 

"Damn it Seifer, don't be such an ass. _What happened to you_?" 

"_Edea_ happened to me, alright? Sorceress fucking Edea, who according to you was the one who arranged my little blank spot in the first place. Fuck cowboy, _she tore my fucking mind apart alright?_" 

It took a moment, but he actually started to laugh at the expression the cowboy's face. Looked like the man had been shot with his own rifle and that restored a good measure of his humor. He took a relaxed stance, letting Hyperion dangle to one side as he cocked a hip. 

"Cowboy, you are cracking me up. _'What happened to you?'_ A first year _cadet_ coulda made an educated guess. A Sorceress is a living junction to her Knight, even you ought t've figured out what that meant. She was _junctioned_ to me. If there was anything buried in my messed up brain, trust me cowboy, She knew about it." 

"Damn, but that just don't make sense then. Why th' hell did Edea wipe your memories in th' first place, only t'give them back to you when She made you Her Knight?" 

Seifer shrugged. Who the hell cared? 

"Who the hell cares?" he echoed out loud. "All I know is that when She accepted me as Knight, She wanted to know what She was getting. Not my fault if She left all those little bits still intact when She died." He shrugged again, impatient with the direction of this conversation. "Ultimecia was my Sorceress," he said somewhat unwillingly, after a moment or two of silence, "Edea was just a conduit for a time. Maybe... fuck, I don't know cowboy. Maybe Matron was trying to hide something from that bitch." 

"Maybe," came the slow return. "Maybe not. Probably never know at this point. I doubt Matron remembers much of anything from that time. She never talks about it anyways." 

Seifer snorted. 

"Amen to that cowboy. Fuck, this is the most _I've_ ever talked about it either and trust me, its not much for pleasant experiences. You think I _want_ to remember? A part of me wishes She'd short circuited _all_ my goddamn memories when She took the big dive. I'd be a happier man if I was a drooling vegetable somewhere." 

Across the way, the cowboy shuddered at the harsh words. Seifer didn't regret having said them. It was the truth... sometimes. Maybe not always, but sometimes. 

"Alright, its my goddamn turn again. What the fucking hell is going down in Garden? Leonhart pick up his gunblade and start butchering the students in the hallways or something?" 

He'd startled the cowboy, he could see it. Damn, was that it? Had the high and mighty hero of the War gone ballistic on the defenseless? 

"No," Kinneas said, "nothin' quite so drastic. But he has racked up the most 'kills' the Training Center has ever recorded. I know, I checked th' stats this afternoon." 

Seifer stared at him, a puzzled frown creasing his eyebrows. 

"How many would that be exactly?" he asked, not sure where this was going. 

"Just over three thousand," the cowboy replied steadily. "S'far as I can tell from the times, he's been in th' Center every night practically for the last ten months, killin' things. Big things too. He's takin' on Red Giants and Marlboro by himself." 

"What the hell?! Has he gone fucking _nuts_?" 

"Crazy? I don't think so. Th' commander's just as together as he's always been. Problem is, he was never all that well put together in th' first place an' it just seems t'be gettin' worse as time goes on. I think," he said, "I know what's actually wrong. An' as it turns out, you're the only one that has a hope in hell of fixin' it. The irony is, you're also the one that can actually fuck it up worse than it already is." 

"Cowboy, you're still talking in circles. What the fuck is wrong with Leonhart?" 

"Not quite yet," was his maddening reply. He started to snarl but didn't get a chance to work up a full head of anger. 

"Why'd you go with the Sorceress, Almasy?" The words were rapid-fire, hard. They hit him where it hurt, where _he_ hurt. "You jumped on that bandwagon like it was th' only thing going. Didn't even so much as hesitate, s'far as I can tell. What the _hell_ was with that? You shoulda been with us _fightin'_ Her." 

Ever since he'd stepped off that train, that single question had been the burning, unacknowledged subtext between them. Nearly a whole fucking year later and enough water under the bridge to drown an army, and he _still_ didn't want to answer. No way, _no way_ could he remain still while Kinneas sat there and demanded an explanation, a _reason_ for what he had done. 

Fuck, he owed the man. He owed them all. 

Those hot eyes drove him into motion again. He paced, eating up the ground in his agitation. Although the clearing wasn't big, he could get a few good strides in from side to side. 

"She wanted me. I went. You don't fucking say 'no' to a Sorceress." That was the truth. Of a kind, at least. 

"Don't believe it Almasy. Not for a second." 

God damn you cowboy, _shut up_. Haven't you figured out yet that some things are better left buried? _Leave it fucking alone_. He glared at the sniper but Kinneas didn't take the hint, just kept driving those words at him like he was another kind of target. 

"You walked into that room waving Hyperion around like it was a toy, and you was all excited about takin' out the nasty ol' President in the name of truth, justice and the Forest Owls. I might not of been there but I heard about it from those who were. When She came _She offered you a goddamn choice_! You chose Seifer, an' you left with Her, by all accounts willingly enough. An' I wanna know why." 

"What the fucking hell makes you think I had a choice? _I didn't fucking dare refuse!_" 

He tried. Tried to hold the them back, but they'd been locked behind his teeth too long. The sick feeling in his body exploded, making him feel like he'd been caught in that trap again. Exultation. Rage. Terror. It was all there, just like before. And if he was reading Kinneas right, it had all been for nothing. 

The gunblade was smooth, heavy in his hand. A piece of his heart. A twisted part of his soul. The balanced turn, the deadly graceful pirouette that had the blade whistling like vengeance above his head. The forest exploded around him, destroyed in a violent arc as the heavy blade carved through everything in its path. He whirled and struck once more, tense muscles flexing as Hyperion shuddered in his hand. The scream of the things that died around him was sweet, the scream of his rage no softer in his mind. 

"There was no fucking choice! _No fucking choice at all_!" The words spilled from him like a poison, acid and painful. "Gods above and fucking below Kinneas, if I hadn'ta gone with Her, She was gonna take _him_ instead! No way was I going to let that happen. No fucking _way_ was She getting her claws into him. _He. Was. Mine!_" 

Impassioned. Raw. They'd thought he'd gone with her because he was who he was. And they were right. But they'd never understood that who he was wasn't what they'd always assumed. No point denying he'd craved what Edea had offered him. He'd wanted it, needed it, had fucking fought for it all his life. He _deserved_ it for what he'd had to live through. 

Sorceress Knight. He'd _dreamed_ of that, all those long years of struggling to prove that he had what it took. He'd hoarded that fantasy away in a secret place, tucked it close where sunlight couldn't touch it, destroy it. He'd be strong. Powerful. Cities would tremble under his hand. The world would fucking crawl to his feet. 

And it would be for Her. 

Knights were goddamned _special_. A Sorceress and her Knight, inseparable. Complete. _Joined_. That is exactly who he wanted to be, what he wanted his life to be. In the dead of night, bruised and bleeding, he'd sworn that to himself. If She was out there, he'd find Her. He would be Hers just as She would be his. _Together_. 

But in that moment, that timeless instant when She'd finally called him, given him his dream... he'd looked into Her mad eyes and he'd _known_. She didn't want him, she wanted Her promised Knight. And if he refused She'd take another in his place. 

That wasn't a choice. That was a fucking ultimatum. His dream... ash. Dust and ash. But in the aftermath Leonhart had walked away from that room, untouched. 

And that had to be enough, because that was the only thing he had managed to deny Her. He'd been consumed with Her after that. 

Dust and ash. 

"You were protecting him?" Irvine's voice almost astonished but he didn't react. They'd never known after all. He'd never bothered to tell them and it didn't fucking matter what his reasons were. He flexed his fingers over Hyperion's hilt, blankly staring at the wreckage around him. A voice deep in his mind laughed at him, chortled its amusement. It was a goddamn good thing that the cowboy had hauled him out to the middle of the Aucauld. This really would have been messy in Balamb. 

"Why, Seifer?" Irvine's voice was urgent, insistent. He tried to block it out, but now the words were an unbearable pressure. He'd strangled them for too long. He refused to look back at the cowboy though, knowing that his face was anything but blank. He stared up at the sky instead, opening burning eyes to the falling light. 

"Fuck you cowboy. How the hell do I know?" Bitter acid in his throat. "Couldn't fucking bear to have her take him away from me, that's all I know. What the hell that means, I have no goddamned idea. Possession maybe. Obsession. Oh hell yeah, I've been fucking obsessed over that prick for years. At the end, that bitch riding my mind like a goddamn knife at my throat, and all I could think about was the color of his eyes." 

"She was controlling you." 

Irvine's voice was almost a question, but relief colored it a certain shade of cool. Seifer whirled on one heel, rounding on him. His lips curled back into a feral grin even as Hyperion slashed through the air in emphatic denial. 

"Don't fucking kid yourself cowboy. That was me up there, doing what I do best. She said 'destroy Trabia', so I was the one who figured out how. She said 'get the information' so I hung him up on that rack like the crucified angel he is and fucking near killed him to get it. I was the best goddamned Knight any Sorceress ever had! And a part of me fucking _enjoyed_ it!" 

For a long moment, there was only the harsh sound of his breathing echoing in his ears. His last shouted confession dwindled and was lost, swallowed by the pain between them. He stared at Kinneas, but wasn't really seeing anything. 

All of it. So much hatred in Her, so intense it had eaten him alive to share it. The madness that had been Her caress. The chaos reflecting in Her eyes that had reflected through him. He'd craved it. Even as She'd broken him open, raped his mind and his dreams, he'd still been Hers. She'd taken everything he was, everything he had to give. All of it. 

Dust and ash. 

"How much of that was you?" Such a quiet sound, that voice. Sane. The voice of someone that once upon a time had been his friend. He refused to soften any of the truth for it. 

"Enough cowboy. Fucking enough to qualify me for the execution that I got pardoned from." His eyes refocused and he glared at the sniper. This wasn't twenty questions anymore. This was ripping pieces of his _life_ away. 

"But not all." 

He bared his teeth at the sniper again. What the fuck was the man trying to do, make excuses for him? 

"No, damn it. Not all. Maybe not even most. But enough. Enough that I didn't expect to be alive afterwards. Didn't fucking expect to be _breathing_ when the dust settled. Surprised the hell out of me when Leonhart walked away without finishing the kill." 

"Surprised all of us. We thought... I thought... by that point he was too far gone... t' hold back any more." 

And that was too goddamn much. Too much truth. Too much _memory_ of what he'd been. Of what he'd done. No more. No fucking more. He'd taken all he was gonna take - this goddamn game was fucking _over_. 

Hyperion went down, anchoring itself one last time into the abused ground. He flowed across the intervening space like it wasn't there. To where the cowboy was taking those methodical shots at him, stripping away pieces of who he was. 

As they landed Seifer was on top of the cowboy, one hand already starting to wrap around that smooth throat. He was only in control for a moment because the sniper arched even as they fell, throwing him off with a single twist of his hips. Seifer rolled, coming up on one knee just enough to reorient himself. Then he launched himself back at the cowboy. They rolled once more until Seifer's greater weight pinned the other man to the dirt. He straddled those lean hips and went for the throat grip again. He was going to goddamn shake something loose. 

He didn't have a chance to consolidate the hold. The cowboy's hands were steel vices on his wrists, holding him back from the strangehold. 

"Fuck you, Seifer." That deep jade glared at him, hot and fierce. "Broke my ribs once already today. You break 'em again and _you_ can explain it to Leonhart." 

The name choked him, made him forget almost everything else except the need to return the pain. He leaned into it, sliding his weight down the man's legs to pin them to the ground even as he pressed his hips down, lowering his centre so that he couldn't be thrown off again. Still the fingers strained over his wrists, keeping him from consolidating his hold on that lying throat. Irvine surged underneath him and he struggled to maintain his position of control. The angry fire in the cowboy's eyes only made him hotter, more focused. 

In a swift motion he twisted one hand, reversing the sniper's lock on his wrist to grab for the same hold. Kinneas grunted as he yanked that arm up and over, fingers digging into the skin to numb the nerve points, to spasm the hand. He pressed his chest down to prevent the sniper's automatic slide to the side, away from the punishing pressure. 

The cowboy bucked his hips, but Seifer had already set himself for that. He switched the grip to the other hand and pulled, locking the sniper's arm behind his own head, one hand pinning the forearm now to the ground. His body was already restraining the man's other arm, although he could feel that the cowboy was searching for a grip on his belt. He settled himself, letting sheer body weight pin that arm by the shoulder. 

Kinneas glared at him even as he arched his body, trying to get enough leverage to throw Seifer off. It was no good. They were both breathing heavily, Seifer from anger and exertion. He grinned and used his free hand to run a finger over the sniper's lips. Teeth snapped at him, but he had the cowboy immobilized. 

"My turn now," he purred, watching the lights in Kinneas' eyes flare and flicker. "I want fucking answers so start talking cowboy. Or I swear to god, I'll make you regret ever starting this with me." 

His only answer was hard breathing. 

"I bet you know," Seifer said almost conversationally, "why Leonhart had the judge pardon me at the trial. Its been driving me crazy, wondering what the hell was going through that fucked up head of his. Tell me Kinneas. Tell me what he meant by that." 

"I. Don't. Know." Irvine spat out. Seifer grinned again as the sniper strained against him, unintentionally pressing his heated flesh closer to the Knight's. Oh, no way was the sniper getting away from him, not now. Not when he was so close to getting his answers. 

"But you do know, little pet," he whispered back. He leaned down and licked softly at the side of the man's lips. Kinneas' eyes startled wide and flew to his face in shock. The body he was holding so tightly trembled and broke out into fresh heat. He let anger roll over his skin, let rage spark in his eyes and face. They were entwined around each other so close now, like lovers. He wanted to make the cowboy hurt, like he was hurting. 

"You. Know. Why." He licked again at that warm skin, tasting salt, tasting heat. He nuzzled farther down, licking at the curve of jawline. Underneath him, Kinneas broke out into fresh refusal. He rode it, shifting his weight to keep himself in control. By inches they struggled, even as Seifer used the punishing grip on the arm to keep Kinneas pinned beneath him. When finally the sniper came to a panting halt, his body was still wired and trembling but Seifer could feel no more resistance. 

When Seifer licked again at the strong throat, Kinneas didn't struggle. Not to say the sniper was passive, no, anything but that. But Seifer had his arm twisted so hard now that any further motion would break it at the joints. Almost whimpers were shuddering from between those lips, but still the sniper did not yield. Seifer approved. He definitely approved. 

"Tell me my pet," he purred once more. "What the fuck was Leonhart thinking?" 

"Told you, asshole," came the faint response, "that I don't fuckin' know." 

He applied the faintest twitch of pressure on that arm and felt the helpless surge in the sniper's body. He knew how to do this. Knew how to break a man. How to strip away that which was unnecessary and leave behind only the body which was pain. Knew how to take the agony and transmute it into exquisitely pure sensation. 

Been there. Done that. 

"Guess," he whispered. 

"_Fuck you Seifer_. He didn't want you t' die." 

"Fuck that cowboy," he denied softly. He brushed his lips over that shaking skin, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and metal. "Leonhart tried to put that damn blade of his through my heart more times that I wanna think about. Guess again." 

Kinneas managed a small headshake, his glazed eyes stabbing impossibly deep into Seifer's. 

"He won't let you die," the cowboy said again, insistently. "You're th' one. You're th' key. This mornin', he told me." 

Aqua jade stripped him apart, tore his heart open with that burning color. 

"Said that th' reason was because he had t' save me. An' you know why I had to be saved? Because he wouldn't fuckin' allow Her to take anyone else from him. Who the fuck d'y' think he meant by that?" Kinneas laughed, the merest puff of breath against his cheek. "Sound familiar, asshole?" 

Rage flared, trembled on the edge of culmination. His grip spasmed and Kinneas arched, screaming beneath him as his arm was pulled nearly to the breaking point. Seifer released the tension by a mere finger's width, stroking his free hand over the straining flesh of the cowboy's body, like he might calm an animal. Without even thinking about it, he danced his fingers over the buttons of the vest to release the material. It fell away to reveal the smooth chest that glowed and twisted under his searching fingers. He ran a rough hand over that heat, feeling muscles tremble and twitch beneath his sensitive touch. 

"Beautiful pet," he murmured, eyes slitted. 

"Goddamn you, Seifer," Kinneas panted into his skin. "Not your fuckin' pet. Let go!" 

He didn't bother replying, stroking the smooth line of ribs exposed by his caress. Hot and dusty, the smell of gunpowder and metal mingled with the scent of crushed grass and dirt. He stroked a hand up and down that quivering skin, feeling the twitch and shudder of muscles strained to near breaking. He'd been here before, done this before. The memory of lightning and ozone rode his senses, the hard tang of metal in his mouth. It had been sweeter than honey then. 

It was just as sweet now. 

He looked into the cowboy's face, so close to his own. Those jade eyes had almost closed, their brilliance hidden now by gold dusted lashes that fluttered over that sun warmed flesh. Blood flecked those lips where they'd been bitten. It was one of the most arousing things he'd ever seen. To feel the fight still trembling beneath him, and to have that face turned into his shoulder, the smooth column of throat exposed. 

He didn't even bother trying to resist the urge. 

When he lifted his head, blood was smeared over that smooth skin, staining everything in shades of crimson and gold. Scalding copper filled his mouth. He licked his lips, letting the taste shudder all the way down his body. Gods, but the cowboy was one of the sweetest things he'd ever had. The man had arched beneath him but hadn't protested, hadn't struggled. The blazing heat of the sniper's body was radiating through them both. It was too much. It was too goddamn much. 

And it had been so long. 

He gave up questions, gave up thinking at all. He sank his hand into the fan spread of hair, spreading his fingers through that wealth of color. Tilted that beautiful face towards his and branded his kiss hard onto that unwilling flesh. It was intoxicating, the domination and the shuddering body beneath him. He burned his desire onto the lips below his, bruising them, forcing himself onto that stained skin. 

Over and over again, he tried to break through that skin to the buried fire beneath. It was there and it was rising for him. He could all but feel it, all but fucking taste it on the breath that panted against his lips. He took that surrender and gave it back, used hands and body to bring that furnace heat to the surface where he wanted it to be. Somewhere along the way he released the grip on the man's arm, desperate to get his hands into that glorious hair. 

Because somewhere along the way the cowboy started to kiss him back. 

Blood. Desire. Skin hot enough to burn. Lips that were sweet with copper, teeth that bit and tore at his skin. He growled low in his throat, threading his fingers behind the jaw even as he sank into the offered heat. Fuck but the cowboy could kiss. 

When Kinneas rolled him over he didn't protest, let the man straddle his hips. He looked up with eyes slitted in pleasure even as his hands slid up the man's thighs, digging into that hard flesh. Blood was trickling down from the wound on the throat, staining that dusky skin the color of violence. The cowboy's eyes were nearly closed, only a thin crescent of smouldering violet showing. Amber hair had tumbled everywhere and Seifer groaned, thrusting up against the pinning weight. Breath hissed out from between the cowboy's teeth as his head snapped back. 

It had been so long. 

When the cowboy looked down again, Seifer smiled savagely at the raw heat on the man's face. Kinneas looked about as far gone as he felt, and he was only barely hanging onto his need to finish this. He wanted. _Needed_. 

"What color are my eyes?" the man asked in a husky voice. 

He licked his lips. That barely contained heat stared back at him. 

"Violet. Pure fucking amethyst," he said rawly. He surged up and sank his hands into that tumbled hair, twisting his body to pin the cowboy so that they sprawled in a tangled heap. Mindlessly he kissed those burning lips, licking at that clever tongue. He wanted to devour the man alive. So fucking hot. So sweet. He moved down to the throat, the hollow of the collarbone. His hand moved over the curve of the man's hip, stroking the thigh through the rough fabric. 

"What color they supposed t' be?" 

He froze. Involuntarily his eyes closed even as his heart counted out the rhythm of his strangled silence. 

"_Goddamn you_ cowboy," he said finally, in a voice that was a harsh whisper. "Silver. They're supposed to be fucking silver." 

He thrust himself away before he could give in to the urge to break something. He gained his feet in a rush and walked unsteadily away. Refused to look at the man he left stretched out on the ground behind him. He ran suddenly trembling fingers through his hair, scrubbing at the skin on his face. His body was aching, still craved those burning honey kisses. But the cowboy had nailed him, more surely than if he'd put a bullet through his heart. 

They were supposed to be silver. 

He heard Kinneas get slowly to his feet behind him. He didn't - couldn't turn around. Felt like he'd been running a damn marathon, his breathing strained and harsh. He hooked his thumbs savagely through the loops on his belt and shook his body violently. Desire was heavy slickness on his skin, but a choked, helpless anger was winding around his heart. Damn the cowboy. Damn him for reminding him of what he wanted to forget. 

He felt the spell trigger, the slight sensation of cold as Kinneas Healed himself. But even when the soft footsteps moved up behind him he didn't turn around. Unexpectedly hands settled on his waist and warm breath caressed the back of his neck. His eyes startled wide even as he felt the cowboy lean into his body. 

He swallowed convulsively but didn't move, didn't protest the intimacy. Even now, it felt too damn good to be touched by that warmth. 

"All that's left is fragments," Kinneas said unexpectedly, his voice a single thread of smoke behind him, "an' the only thing holdin' the pieces together is th' ice. When the ice finally cracks from the pressure, they'll be nothin' left." Impossible not believe those quiet, fatalistic words, impossible to pretend he didn't understand. 

"How bad, cowboy?" he blindly asked the air. 

"Shattered," came the strained reply, "broken like glass inside. You... you're the only one that might know how t' put what's left back together. Ressurect some of the pieces maybe. I... can't, he jus' won't let me get far enough inside. But you can. You're th' only one that has a hope in hell of knowin' how." 

He started to shake his head, feeling Kinneas' grip spasm on his belt. 

"You're giving me too much goddamn credit, cowboy," he replied, "Leonhart has always shut me the fuck out. I've spent my whole goddamn _life_ trying to get inside those walls. What the hell makes you think I can do anything now?" 

Behind him he felt Kinneas breathing, the warmth shivering over the nape of his neck . When the voice came, it was so ragged that it was barely recognisable. 

"Maybe.. maybe you can't. But if that's true then he's a walkin' dead man. We just haven't buried him yet." 

Dread clutched at his heart. Compelled, he turned in the circle of those strong arms to look straight into the cowboy's eyes. He was met with hard turquoise jade, not even a shimmer of amethyst in those depths. Irvine's warm hands remained a solid connection at his waist but he barely felt them. He searched those eyes, looking for anything that might lessen the flat horror of those words. 

Nothing. The cowboy was fucking bleeding inside over what he'd said. He _believed_ that Leonhart was a walking dead man. 

And Kinneas wouldn't say something like that unless it was damn well true. 

"Goddamn you, cowboy," he growled, suddenly angry again, "don't you fucking dare lay this on me. I ain't Leonhart's personal goddamn savior!" 

"You'd better fuckin' be," Kinneas said with an answering flare, "'cause I'm trustin' you t' do this! If you turn around an' walk away he'll be dead within th' month. He'll walk into the Centre late one night an' he just won't come back out. He can't take a goddamn knife to his wrist so he's tryin' to find another way t' end his pain. You find a way t' fuckin' _save_ him Seifer, or I'll never fuckin' forgive you!" 

He stared into those burning eyes so close to his own, shocked at the vehemence. As he watched, a bead of moisture curved away from one clear eye. And then another. 

"Fuck cowboy," he groaned, his heart aching hard enough to shatter, "don't you fall apart on me." He reached out and brushed away the clear stickiness with a rough thumb. 

"It seems that it's all I can damn well do is cry for him," the cowboy said viciously. "_Save him_ Seifer. If he dies, I don't know how I'm s'pposed to go on livin' either." A faint, mocking smile twisted for a moment on those lips. "An' I'm too damn handsome to die young." 

"Got that fuckin' right," he agreed throatily. It seemed the thing to do so he leaned in and kissed the cowboy. Salt and sorrow this time, but still sweet, still a warmth he was starting to wonder how he'd ever done without. He finally broke the kiss and pulled back, but only far enough to rest his forehead on Kinneas'. 

"Can't promise a goddamn thing cowboy," he finally sighed. "Leonhart...Squall's the coldest fucking bastard I've ever met. And I've met more than a few," he said with a haunted ghost of a smile. He looked hard into the cowboy's eyes, seeing the raw hurt turning deep in that color. That vulnerability didn't seem even remotely odd in that steady gaze, the hands that had once pulled the trigger that had nearly killed him now resting possessively on his skin. 

"I'll give you this much Kinneas," he said quietly after a long moment. "If he fucking _dares_ to take the long walk after we're done trying to save his ass, you and me are gonna get together. We'll get the drunkest we've ever fucking got on the most expensive thing we can steal, we'll screw each other until we damn well can't see straight and then we'll both start walking after him. Fucking deal?" 

Warm breath puffed against his lips for a few moments as Kinneas' laughed silently. Caught his breath to see the rise of violet in that jade. Goddamn cowboy. Never what you thought he was and never afraid to show it. Leonhart was a fool to walk away from this. 

"Melodramatic asshole," the man finally breathed at him. "Deal." 

"Alright cowboy, alright. I'm too goddamn beautiful to die young either, so let's go nail Leonhart to the goddamn wall." 

And with that he broke away to find Hyperion. 


End file.
